The Fun Periodontal Graft

For as long as I can remember I’ve had bad teeth.  Not in terms of line-up or my face, really, just thin.  For someone who once wore a retainer (lost while eating Milk Duds during the film “The Sting” at The Bay Theatre in Ballard), I haven’t had to wear braces (Miriam and the kids have had to wear braces) and I don’t have a proper over-bite, my teeth lot in life was being stuck with thin teeth.

Just to be clear:  Thin teeth = cavities.  Probably the worst was having 12 cavities at one time when I was a kid.  This was the time when you still had to lean over and spit into a mini toilet bowl and no one wore masks or gloves.  Good times.

Having a good smile (dare I even say “newscaster” worthy?) did not mean I didn’t have bad teeth.  And then it just got worse.  A continual parade of cavities, made all the worse by my ingestion of gallons of Coca-Cola and chewing loaded with sugar “Bubblicious” bubble gum.

As time progressed I moved on to root-canals (two), removal of wisdom teeth, molars and, most recently a bridge (so my teeth don’t collapse onto each other).  Really the only benefit I see of having a bridge is that I can chew sunflower seeds again.  woo hoo

And, seriously, I have more metal in mouth than teeth.

But the story being told today isn’t about my teeth, per se, but about my periodontal graft.

As I age (or we all age) our gums have a tendency of receding.  During a standard dental visit, the dentist, or assistant uses some kind of gauge to measure gum recession.  It’s during these times where I’m usually falling in and out of sleep consciousness (I like to sleep when I’m at the dentist – so sue me), where the assistant or dentist drones on to someone with a chart.  “Four, three, four, two, negative two, negative four, three, four.....”  It was after one of these measurements where my dentist said:  “Matt, you need a periodontal graft.”

“Okay.  What’s that?”  I asked.

“Your gums are receding and so before your teeth fall out of your head, a doctor can CUT SKIN AWAY FROM THE ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH (emphasis mine), and graft it onto the gum.”

Sure, what the hell, sign me up.

With a recommendation in my pocket I went off to meet with the specialist.  Dr. WH reminded me of a non Vampire Hunter Abraham Lincoln.  He ran a small oral surgery place connected to the denture making office of a father in our daycare.  A father who, for lack of a better word, was a dork.

Dr. WH, along with his Asian wife, ran this clinic and they went over all the details as to what was going to happen, drugs, time, etc.  It would be smooth sailing, no problem, don’t worry.

But...I can be a worrier.  So I went up to Mrs. WH and asked her if this was covered by insurance.  She smiled sweetly and looked at me in spoke in very broken English.  “Yeah, it covered.  No worry.  It covered.”

Good.  I went home.

When the day of appointment came, it was clear that I was going to be drugged up to the point where I would NEARLY be put under.  I would have all faculties and could mumble incoherently but things would be BLURRY.  Since I would be in a basically inebriated drugged up state, my father-in-law graciously offered to pick me up and drive me home.

Under I went and the procedure to cut away skin from the roof of my mouth and latch it onto my gums was underway.

Now, I will readily admit that I’m a Christian and I’m glad that people are able to profess their faith but I thought it slightly weird and a tad disconcerting when Dr. WH started preaching to me while I was “under.”

“Are you a believer Matt?”

“Yeshbbathat.”

“Because you know who the true healer is, it’s not, me, it’s GOD.”

“Ahhblathalaljafs.”

“God has given me the gifts to help you, but he’s the true healer.  Isn’t that right?”

“surethatblahblahthep”

After a couple hours of his “God given gifts” and post proselytizing, I was done and up out of the chair.  Groggy, blessed by God and his healing power, and ready to head home.

Still – may face felt punched by multiple angels and the gauze in my mouth was filled with saliva-blood and I was drooling saliva-blood on myself.

My father-in-law had made it over just fine and time for me to relax.

“Okay, you pay, $5,000 dollars.”  Mrs. WH said to me.

“Whathatahat?”

“Insurance no cover!  You pay, NOW!”

I looked at her in my groggy state, blood drool staining my shirt, unable to comprehend what the hell she was demanding from me.

“Whatdidyousaythat?”

“You pay, NOW!  Five thousand dollar!  Insurance no cover procedure!”

I looked at my father-in-law with what I’m sure were blood-shot eyes, matching the color of my shirt.  Gauze still filling my mouth like blood soaked Olive Garden garlic bread sticks.

The only thing I could do was call my work, except the home office is in Portland so I’d have to call the Seattle office and have them transfer me to HR in Portland.  And I was in no shape to even complete a sentence let-alone negotiate some sort of Insurance plan infraction.

With my mind clearing a bit, I was able to get the HR person on the phone:

“Do you know if Periodontal grafts are covered?”  I’m sure that’s what I said.  It probably came out more like:  “Doyouknowperiografcover?”  She tried to find out the information but she probably just said to herself:  “How do I get this idiot off the phone?”

With her response inconclusive, I had to dive into whatever was in my profit sharing.  I didn’t have 5K to just hand to:  “You pay now!  Insurance no cover!”  And where was Mr. Christian Dr. WH?  Probably having a post procedure bible study with himself.  Good for him, leave me with Mrs. WH and her arms-crossed anger and glare.

The HR person explained that I couldn’t access my 401K or something – it was all becoming more of a blur because, at this point, I had started weeping.  The meds, the pain, the blood-saliva gauze sticks and the feeling like the world was crashing in on me was too much to bear.

My father-in-law stood there unable to move...or even know what to say.

Today I still don’t know how I eventually got out of there, but I do remember that I didn’t pay her $5,000 and I do remember weeping all the way home in the car.  Hard to put on a tough exterior to the Old-Man-In-Law when you feel like a complete pain filled failure.

A couple days later I wrote a note to my dentist and to Dr. WH explaining that I was leaving her practice and why.  In my now coherent state I ripped them all a new one as best and as politely as I could.

Months go by and we get a new family in the daycare.  In talking with the mother of the family we find out that she works with Dr. WH and Mrs. WH.  I told her about my experience.  When she came to pick up her child the next day she looked at me and said:  “I found your letter, Matt.  I cried.  I’m so sorry.”  She soon left Dr. WH and Mrs. WH because, as she put it, Mrs. WH was a total bitch and she couldn’t stand working for them anymore.

A while later I sat down with my dentist friend Jim over a beer and told him the story.  He laughed and said that I could have brought them up on all sorts of ethics charges, could have sued them, etc.  I probably should have but, you know, God is the true healer.