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Son, be a Dentist!


We have a new dentist. Over the course of a few visits, it became clear that our old one was… unexacting, to put it kindly. As in, twice failing to observe cavities large enough for me to feel with my tongue. More recently and far more seriously, it seems Eileene’s been building up a dangerous and painful crust of something just under the gum line, something we learned upon her referral to an oral surgeon with complaints of headaches. And now that that’s been stripped away, she’s in need of serious treatment to protect her now-exposed dentin, including the need to clamp her teeth in a gel-filled mouthguard. Every night, for the rest of her life.

Naturally enough, our new dentist found a lot to correct. A lot a lot. Ten procedures or so apiece. Some of that—my popped filling, for example—may just be newly developed conditions, but I doubt that much of it is. Rather, we are now probably about to receive treatment for conditions that have festered well over the half year since our last dental check-up, and are probably worse for not being detected and treated early. More expensive, too.

Mom observed that we might have the basis for a lawsuit, though she also observed that hiring a lawyer would likely cost us more than we’ll recoup. (She’s right.) All we can do to register our dissatisfaction is to change dentists. It hardly seems sufficient.

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