Sometime in November, a dental implant that has fallen out several times in the past two years, did it again. My dentist in Scranton had warned me it might. Privately, this was the thing I most hoped would not happen. No dental issues while in Italy, I just didn’t think I could navigate that.
By chance, a friend of mine had told me of a dentist she really liked about a week before the implant fell out. So, I texted her. “Who is this guy and how do I find him?” She gave his office a call, and was told I should come on over that afternoon. No appointment necessary.
So, implant in a baggie, I go.
A nice young woman takes my information. There’s no front desk, she squats by a coffee table while she fills out a form. It’s basic stuff like name and address and numbers of various kinds. She asks if I can wait for about a half hour, I say, sure, and she goes off.
I rifle through the reading material. It’s all interesting. I pick a copy of Sette, a weekly news magazine. It’s a good read, articles about a variety of subjects, most of it within my ability to understand.
Awhile later a young man comes out and stands in front of the coffee table. In Italian, “So, what’s up?” I don’t know who he is, but he seems to have the right to ask, so I show him the implant in a baggie and introduce myself. “Giuseppe,” he answers, and shakes my hand. “Come on back.” I follow him into a room that is combination office and examination area, all very nicely furnished and with some impressive looking dental equipment. “Have a seat.”
This little guy with the beautiful eyes and pleasant face, in a surgeon’s cap that lets a few black curls out just over his ears, wearing a lumpy lab coat over super casual clothes that are too large for him and the blue and silver sneakers, is Dottore Giuseppe. He looks about 23. From the dates on the certificates in the waiting room I find he’s forty. I would never have guessed. His hands are remarkably graceful. Both in appearance and manner he reminds me of a physical comedian from the silent film era. He asks me several questions about health then invites me into the examination chair. A few minutes of poking around, he says we need x-rays.
I hate dental x-rays. Biting that film hurts, no matter what kind of armature they come up with to try to make it better. So, I am not happy at this moment. We go into the other room, equipped for dental work only (no office furniture) and he sits me down at a machine, tells me to hold still, and turns it on. In about fifteen seconds it takes a full scan of my teeth and sends it to his laptop. X-rays done, let’s take a look.
The implant was anchored on roots that are now breaking, so they will have to come out. “It won’t be bad, we use drugs here to make you happy. In fact, they’re so much fun, you might want to come back even without any dental work.” I’m back a couple of weeks later, a little bit dreading it in spite of Giuseppe’s upbeat promotional. I’d never had roots pulled before, but it didn’t sound like something I would enjoy.
He’s right about the drugs, though. I think it might be what we used to call laughing gas. They strap a very modern contraption to my nose, not at all awkward or uncomfortable, and we wait. After a couple of minutes Giuseppe asks “How do you feel?” “Normal,” I reply. “Okay, we’ll wait some more,” and he stands in mock anticipation of a great event. A few minutes later, “Now?” “Drunk.” “We’re ready!” he shouts, but quietly, and his team springs into action. Some novocaine, ten minutes, and several dryly delivered witticisms later, he is stitching it up.
I come back the next week to have the stitches out, and mention that I am due for a cleaning. He looks around at his staff, says “Anyone want to do that now?” “Now? That’s not necessary.” “Why not? You’re here.” Someone volunteers, and off we go.
Then about a week ago, the area of the root extraction began to hurt a little. Last night the part of my tongue next to it started to hurt, too. It quickly became painful to chew, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have it checked out; maybe there was an infection developing.
I stop in today about 1:30 to ask for an appointment. I describe the problem to the woman I meet on the way in, who just happens to be passing between rooms, and she tells me to wait. Giuseppe comes out and I repeat my story. He asks an assistant if he has time to check on it right away. He does. Five minutes later Giuseppe is explaining that it’s a bone spur that might work itself loose in two or three weeks, or he could pull it out instead, my choice. “Take it out.” I’m given an appointment for two hours later.
This time, while waiting I read a travel magazine. The cover story is “48 Hours in New York,” so I peruse that ridiculous notion, first. The next article is by a woman who lived with her husband and son in Topanga Canyon, Big Sur, and Trinity County in the seventies, and who has returned on a sentimental journey. I’m totally engrossed. Suddenly Giuseppe is in front of me. “I called several times. Guess you got lost in the woods. Come on back.” Novocaine (no gas, unfortunately) some poking around, some pulling, a couple of stitches, and we’re done.
After the procedure, I make another appointment to have the stitches out, the woman wishes me good day, and leaves the room. I stand there for a few bewildered moments, then follow her. “What do I owe?” She gives the Italian equivalent of pfft and says “Niente.” I can’t believe it, so I sort of repeat the question, but less strongly so it won’t seem rude. “Why would we charge you for something like that?”
I say goodbye to Giuseppe. He gives me instructions. I thank him for seeing me so quickly. His eyes grow soft and he says “Of course,” but he’s actually thanking me for thanking him.
I never thought I’d know the day when I kind of want things to go wrong with my teeth.