My latest conspiracy theory

A few months after the Smelmooo and I got engaged, he and my mother separately gave me the same ultimatum: Get thee to the dentist, or I won't be at your wedding. And I think that they meant it.

I hadn't been to the dentist in at least 10 years, although not as a result of any sort of awful experience at the dentist -- I actually rather liked my dentist in high school, who shared my birthday and had a wild thatch of red hair and matching mustache that somehow made him appear trustworthy. But somehow I'd just gotten into the habit of not going, and the longer I put it off, the more I worried about what would happen when I did go, which I decided would be more emphatic shaming than I'd experienced in my 13 years of Catholic school, and who needs that? Plus, there were these awful dental students in one of my public health classes in grad school, and I just abhorred them, and I decided that all dentists and future dentists suck, based on this n of 2.

So clearly, this anti-dentist stuff was not coming from a rational place, and it took the threats of my mom and my maybe-fiance -- along with a horror story from Minnams of a guy she knew whose tooth exploded while he was on his honeymoon, which may actually have been the more powerful kick in the pants, even if she made it up -- to get me actually to get in the chair.

I called the new dentist that the Smelmooo had visited, whom he liked very much, and the receptionist was so alarmed when I told her how long it had been since my last appointment (again, are you seeing the parallels here? "Father, it has been 10 years since my last confession..."), she gave me an appointment for x-rays and a consultation the following week, not wanting to give me time to change my mind.

So in I went, and the dentist told me I had perfect teeth. That's right: perfect.

My cleaning was scheduled for the following month, and the hygienist didn't berate me (the Smelmooo was right; I actually love this dentist and everyone in her office -- if you Jersey folks are in need of someone good, let us know -- despite the point I'll eventually reach. Promise). She did, however, say, "Sweetie, you know, you should really make a point to come in every six months, not just once a year."

Ten years of not going to the dentist, and the hygienist called it at one year. Pretty good, right? So I'm feeling quite smug and superior, and I'm all about going to the dentist every six months now. Piece of cake, plus I get all of this praise lavished on me: "They're perfect! Such beautiful teeth! Keep up the good work!" I might as well get a tiara on the way out the door instead of a free toothbrush and floss.

So I kept up the every-six-months thing, and had another appointment today. I am very much at ease in the chair now, chatting with the dental assistant about Oprah, Kirstie, and Tom and Katie, asking my dentist about plans for her upcoming wedding. I need to live up to my designated model patient role, so I'm patient and engaging and obedient (although the truly perfect patient probably would have agreed to the suggested x-rays, which I did not; my mother, who's had more dental problems than anyone I've ever known, has always been incredibly opinionated about unnecessary x-rays, and without even realizing it, I channeled her and declined to have them done).

The dentist begins poking around my mouth, tells me to rinse, hands me a mirror as she eases my chair back.

"Hold this up. See this tooth back here? I think that's the sign of a cavity starting to form, although it's nothing to worry about just yet. It's not soft or anything, but it's dark, so keep an eye on it."

I'm no longer the perfect dental patient. I feel deep shame. I ask what I can do to prevent it from developing into a cavity, but I trip over my words.

"I've...never had a cavity before. I don't... Is there...? I don't even know what it'd feel like. Uh, will I know it's there when I can feel it? Will it really hurt? What do I do? Do I call you right away?"

I swear she's smirking a little behind her mask, but her eyes are kind. She tells me it'll be sensitive to cold, that I'll know it, that I can just keep it clean -- "But I brush incessantly! Ask the Smelmooo! It drives him crazy!!" I think, but don't say out loud -- and maybe try a fluoride rinse.

And the x-rays will be able to show us more when you agree to have them.

Aha!!! I knew it! Lies, all lies, all designed to get me to succumb to the evil x-ray conspiracy, where you make all your money! Now it all makes sense!

"We're still looking for a place for the reception; they're all so expensive!"

"Nope, no vacation this summer; we're trying to save up our money."

A vast, white-coated conspiracy, and I'm not allowing myself to be sucked in. Although, of course, like a good little patient, I said, "Okay, so x-rays next time," scheduled an appointment for February, and stopped to buy some Act on the way home.

Sometimes it'd probably do me good not to be so eager to please, to be a model patient or worker or any of that, but it's almost as hard to resist that instinct as it is to ignore the echo of my mom's voice in my head.