"Is It Safe?"

For anyone that's seen the movie Marathon Man, you'll never forget that line. Sir Lawrence Olivier is playing a character that was at one time a dentist for the Nazi regime. Olivier has Dustin Hoffman strapped to a crude facsimile of a dentist's chair when in an attempt to extract the information he believes Hoffman character is privy to, he says, "Is it safe?" Hoffman doesn't have a fucking clue as to what Olivier is talking about, referring to, etc. Nevertheless, while Olivier hums "Edelweiss" or some fucking inane ditty as he preps the instruments used by an oral surgeon, he continues to query Hoffman over and over, "Is it safe?" Finally, when Olivier doesn't get the answer he's looking for, he proceeds to drill into a live tooth of Hoffman's without the aid of any anesthetic. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Like the movie Jaws and its alarming effect on ocean swimmers the summer it was released, dental practices around the country saw a downturn in business. Normally regular customer appointments went wanting. I'm not quite sure if I became paranoid about going to the dentist after seeing Marathon Man, but perhaps somewhere buried between Dracula and local Long Valley urban legend "The Hooker Man," is the specter of dentists everywhere congregating, drinking beer, and thumbing their collective noses at the part of The Hypocratic Oath that states "to do no harm."

Needless to say, I dislike going to the dentist immensely. An already unappealing prospect to begin with, made infinitely worse first, by my move to Florida seventeen years ago, and compounded by the nature of a health care beast so disruptive, by the time I finally muster the nerve to go to the dentist, the fucker no longer takes whatever dental insurance I happen to have at that time.

My angst knows no bounds. It wasn't always that way. As a child, I adored Dr. Gould. He was my first dentist, and I continued to go to him right up until I got married...the first time. I was twenty-six years old. Dr. Gould did me no harm. Even though like Howard Stern's mother, my mother insisted Novocaine wasn't to be used under any circumstances, even when filling a cavity. I didn't know any different. My mother was obviously mentally unstable.

Then, urged on by my wife, her benefits package, and the knowledge that driving forty-five minutes to the dentist was incredibly stupid, I made a switch. The new dentist, Dr. Levy, was wonderful. He was in the same building where I got my haircut. That was all the information I needed. Frank and Tony wouldn't have a quack for a tenant. Dr. Levy took my insurance when my wife became my ex-wife. All remained calm in my dental universe. And then I moved to Florida.

I had to select a new set of professionals to attend to my bodily needs. A new doctor, now referred to as a "primary care physician." I needed to find a prosthetist I was comfortable with, I had only dealt with Richie Guizzone since my amputation. He understood me. He knew what I needed. He listened to me. Christ, he was an amputee himself, so he even knew what I was going through. I needed a new person to cut my hair. Tony Gentile had been cutting my hair for over twenty years. I needed a new dentist. Yuck. I had to find a pediatrician for Cory. A dentist for Cory. His selections turned out much better for him than mine for me. Or, maybe he just adapted better.

I have lived in Florida for seventeen years now and I am now on my seventh dentist. And I don't go to the dentist all that frequently due to the frequency I am forced to change them. It's not like deciding on which supermarket to shop at. Most of the dentist's in Florida I've had the pleasure of doing business with have been ...how shall I say this delicately?...butchers. I could do just as good a job with an awl, a Dremil, and a mirror, and it would be half as painful.

Why the fuck do they ask if you can feel -whatever it is they jamming into your jaw seeming at any moment it's going to come out the top of your head- when you respond you can, they tell you "Oh, that can't be possible!" while they chortle lightly. "Hey Doc, while you're at it, can't you shove a catheter up my penis so that pain will take my mind off the pain you're causing in my mouth?" The only redeeming feature of one of my Steve Martin Little Shop of Horrors impersonator was, Marilyn Manson also went to the same guy. Occasionally we'd bump into each other. That was a plus, I'm a big Manson fan.

This time there was no more putting it off. I already broke one tooth and let it run it's course several months ago, now another had broken due to lack of proper attention and care. I had to go to the dentist. Number seven it is. Mr. Berstler do you have any last requests?

I based this selection on the fact they had Saturday hours, and both husband and wife graduated from the University of Florida, my son's alma mater. She was nice, efficient, and sympathetic. I was just pathetic. My palms were so sweaty it looked like I peed on my shirt when the hygienist took my apron off. The sad news was, my dentist had to refer me to an oral surgeon. Shit, more uncharted waters.

I decided to take the bull by the horns. Upon arriving home, I immediately made an appointment to have two teeth extracted. The kind, nice, sympathetic lady on the other end of the phone said "You can come in tomorrow if you want. We have an opening at 11:00." Before my brain had a chance to survey the mental landscape of such a devil may care decision, I said "Ok." I hung up the phone and stared at it as if I was hoping she'd call back to say someone had booked that time slot without her knowledge. No such luck.

I arrived on time. I waited nearly an hour before I saw the oral surgeon. And when I did, he said he was sorry for the wait so many times I thought he may very well have been some sort of android with a faulty communication chip. I will save you the Bill Cosby-like analysis, but I'm here to tell you, while it was not painless, it certainly was fast and efficient. Two teeth in and out in less than ten minutes (once the Novocaine took hold). After listening to the speed reading version of aftercare recited by the dental assistant, I was on my way. I told him I didn't need any painkillers for when the Novocaine wore off. I must have been delirious.

Yesterday, I did not blog due to my state of discomfort. I find it hard to focus while St. Vitus is River Dancing inside my mouth. The next time I go to the dentist -there will be many more appointments in my future- and they sit me down, I'm going to ask her "Is it safe?" If she gets it and laughs, number eight won't be very far off.