Mexican Dentist

Here the author describes the adventurous tale of getting a teeth cleaning in Mexico. This piece exemplifies the author's witty humor and lighthearted storytelling style that will leave you entertained and wanting more.

A Splashy Dental Adventure in Mexico

All we wanted was a simple teeth cleaning. Last time we did this in Mexico, it was a mere $12 US each and he did a great job. Sure, the dentist's exam room was steps from his living room and bathroom, but that barely registered as odd. This time? Oh, this time was different. He had already postponed this appointment by a day due to “ploming” problems. I was still unclear if that meant plumbing, plumbing adjacent, or just a general state of disorder. Either way, we had no idea if the issue was fixed or how it might affect our teeth. I had forgotten a basic tenant of my interactions with Mexican people. They never say "no" to anything I ask. They simply try their best even if they know it won't work out. And I always miss the subtlety.

We were greeted by Dr. Dolphin, a man who had made bold fashion choices that morning. His shirt had exactly two buttons fastened, strategically positioned to leave his rather substantial belly joyfully exposed.

My husband went first. I couldn’t hear much from the waiting area, just the usual scolding about flossing more and brushing from the gum up, all standard dental propaganda. Then it was my turn. We exchanged pleasantries. I introduced myself as Pamela, though in Spanish, the accent lands on the second syllable, making it sound like an elegant flourish: Pah-MEH-la. I always want to do a little twirl when I hear it. But my parents had to be different and named me PAMELLA. Now in Spanish, its pronounced Pah-MEH-a. I can’t respond to that.

He motioned to his long, reclining dental chair, which looked inviting, except for one small obstacle. The exam light arm fully extended across the chair like a medieval drawbridge blocked access to the chair. I awkwardly ducked under it and flopped into place. Then, things got interesting.

Dr. Dolphin adjusted the light, directly into my eyes, and retrieved a crumpled apron I had been sitting on, which he then draped across my chest. A warning sign, in hindsight. He handed me a pink suction tool attached to a hissing hose. Apparently, I was in
charge of my own saliva management. Now, let me be clear: I am not skilled at this. As he started on my upper teeth, it became immediately clear that my suctioning skills were inadequate. Water pooled. I choked. He sighed. We paused. Then, as he resumed cleaning, his grip on the water-squirting tool… loosened. A rogue jet of water hit me square on the chin, dribbled down my neck, and, before I could react, another shot landed directly in my eyes. Dr. Dolphin remained unfazed. I reached for the chest apron to mop up, but he finally, mercifully, handed me a towel.

I figured this was a one-time mishap. It was not. Mere moments later, another blast hit my
forehead, then my cheek, and then, impressively, a direct hit up my nose, causing me to sneeze uncontrollably. At this point, he shut off all the machines, flicked off the interrogation lamp, and… stepped outside.

Now, I’m sitting there, soaked, towel in hand, and wondering: Is he going out for a smoke? A break? A career change? I peeked out to see him fiddling with something on the
balcony. Possibly plumbing, possibly electricity, possibly just contemplating his life choices.

He returned, flipped the machines back on as if nothing had happened, and got back to
work. Mainly spraying my face.

Eventually, he switched tactics, moving on to a Spanglish lecture about brushing techniques. Then, he handed me a mirror.

I blinked.

One side of my mouth gleamed, polished to a dazzling white. The other side? Still waiting for its turn in the spotlight. I had no idea how to explain in Spanish.

“That’s 700 pesos,” he said. Then to myself I said. “Next time, book a second appointment for the other side.”

We paid. We left. And next time? Maybe we’ll just stick to flossing.