This Is Not a Drill

At my dentist’s today, for a small and painless procedure: He noticed on a recent visit that I had a little crevice on one molar, one that threatened to turn into something worse. (“You have a teenage cavity–very exciting,” he told me.) So he flowed in a plastic resin–a sealant, they call it–to smooth out the groove and keep bacteria from getting a toehold. And, as he finished up, he remarked to me that my son would most likely have similar sealants put on all his back teeth, probably as a matter of course, once they came in. “They’re 93, 94 percent effective now,” he said. “That plus New York’s water, which is fluoridated, means nobody gets cavities anymore.” Really? Really? “They’re going to be an antiquated disease, like diptheria.”

You know, there are times that I question how much medical advancement I want in my life, especially as I get old. Ten extra miserable and diminished and painful years added to the end of your life are not necessarily a bonus. But this seems to me an unmitigated delight. You spend an hour in the chair when you’re 10 or 12, for a procedure that is (I can report firsthand) FAR less irritating than most dental work, and that’s it. My god! Can you imagine life without the prospect of the high-pitched drill, the smoky smell, the post-novocaine ache? Ever? One in which dentistry is solely the province of the elderly or the vain? Terrorism, shmerrorism: My son may actually have lucked into a good time to be born, after all.