It Wasn't Me!

For some people, it's the high-pitched whine of the drill. Others fear needles loaded with Novacaine. Some hate even a simple cleaning, the scraping of the pick, the feeling of unfamiliar, rubber-gloved hands in the mouth. As for me, what I always hated about a dentist visit was having to make small talk with the receptionist.

I've written about Diane before. In the six years she worked for Dr. Jones, I grew to detest her more and more with each twice-yearly visit. Whenever I showed up at the office, I would hope that she would be on the phone or talking to another patient. Then I could give her a quick wave and slip into the waiting room down the hall from her office. Inevitably, however, just as I opened my book, I'd hear the dreaded call, "Come talk to me!"

So off I'd slink to her office where I'd sit on an uncomfortable wooden chair and listen to interminable stories about her house, her husband, her grown son, and his girlfriend. I'd pretend I was actually interested in every last detail about her life; maybe I did too good a job of pretending because she never seemed to realize how much I hated her monologues. She never even noticed how quickly I'd jump up from the chair and sprint for the examining room when the dentist called me in.

All along, I've felt vaguely guilty about my reaction to Diane. Tab and my mother-in-law, who is also one of Dr. Jones's patients assured me that they found her irritating, too. Still, I wondered if my antisocial tendencies were getting the best of me.

One day, a few weeks after my checkup and cleaning last October, Diane called to confirm Daniel's appointment and mentioned, almost casually, "By the way, today is my last day with Dr. Jones."

"Really?" I asked, restraining an urge to cheer.

"Yes, I start a new job next Monday."

" Well, congratulations," I said. Then, out of politeness and not because I really cared, I asked, "So where is your new job?"

"I can't tell you that. I'm not telling anyone, not even Dr. Jones."

"Oh?" I said, surprised.

"Well, you see, I don't want to take away any of Dr. Jones's patients."

I almost laughed out loud at the idiocy of her statement. Sure, patients might follow a dentist to a new practice, but who leaves a great dentist in a solo practice to follow the receptionist?" That's all Diane was, not even a hygienist. This last conversation was further proof (as if I needed any) that Diane believes the world revolves around her.

So when I went for my cleaning today, I was pleased to see someone else in Diane's chair. The woman who had replaced Diane was on vacation this week; Barbara, who was the receptionist before Diane, had agreed to come out of retirement to fill in for the week.

Before and after my cleaning, I spent a pleasant few minutes talking to Barbara. She asked about Tab and the boys and told me about her husband's retirement hobby of building and flying model airplanes. I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation and left the dentist's office thinking, "So it wasn't me, after all!"

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