Insurance

Tags

dentist, health, insurance, white water rafting

Today was a milestone in my grownup life. After a decade of financially supporting myself and being solely responsible for the management of my routine health care, I have finally signed up for dental insurance.

July 1, 2012 will mark the first time that my school district has offered dental coverage during my ten years of employ. For a long time (I’d rather not say how long) I went without any dental care whatsoever, using my uninsured status as an excuse to avoid the responsibility. But when my thirtieth birthday loomed, I started to take stock of my habits. Lack of insurance, I decided, was no longer an acceptable excuse. I booked an appointment, thinking that although I could imagine a hundred more fun things to do with my money, sound oral health might be worth the investment of a few hundred dollars per year.

(This was the logic that landed me in the oral surgeon’s chair, which turned out to be a more costly and painful endeavor than I had bargained for.  But I digress.)

When I recently received the brochure outlining the cost and benefits of dental coverage, I considered for several days whether it was a smart financial move. The cost of the policy is somewhat more than what I spend on my annual cleanings, exams, and x-ray. I’ve made it through ten years of self-funded, albeit sporadic dental care. Why add another expense to my monthly budget?

I thought it through and decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. It would only take one cavity or chipped tooth to make the cost of the plan worthwhile. Better safe than sorry, I decided.

So today, on my prep period, I walked across the street to the municipal offices to submit my registration form to the payroll clerk. It was a non-event, really. The whole thing – travel time included – took fifteen minutes.

“Well,” I said to myself as I walked back to school, “now I can chew rocks and stop brushing my teeth.”

My next thought was that, with the annual senior class white water rafting trip coming up next week, I no longer need to worry about losing a tooth if I get smacked in the face by an errant paddle.

My next thought after that was that, with the insurance not taking effect until July 1, this will almost assuredly be the year that I lose a tooth on the senior class white water rafting trip.

I reflected on all of the money that I have invested in insurance policies over the years. I’ve never filed a claim on my auto, home, or veterinary insurance, which add up to some very expensive peace of mind. Travel insurance, I learned last winter, is a complete rip-off – at least, it is when purchased through SNCF. My first eight years of health insurance premiums felt like a giant waste of money, but year nine was a continuous string of mysterious infections and hospital visits, all of which were bizarrely uncharacteristic of my otherwise robust health. I consulted with more doctors that year than I have in my entire life. Had I been uninsured, I would still be saddled with debt. I haven’t done the math, but I’m pretty sure that Blue Cross Blue Shield has lost money on me.

So I begrudgingly accepted that, on balance, insurance has done me more financial good than harm.

We held an informational meeting this afternoon for all of the students who will be rafting next week. We gathered in the theater after school to discuss safety procedures. Although it meant giving up an hour of our personal time on a gloriously sunny afternoon, we teachers agreed that it was a worthwhile effort. We took turns discussing each aspect of water safety – I was charged with presenting the proper paddle grip. I noticed as I addressed the crowd that many of the students were absentmindedly chattering away with their neighbors. It’s hard to capture the attention of students who are one week away from graduation.

I wondered as I drove home: will the effort pay off? By investing an hour today, can we ensure the safety of every rafter next week? It’s hard to say. No investment of money or time can prevent a paddle from surging up on the back of a wave and lodging in someone’s jaw. But at least – I hope – we all went home feeling a little better prepared.

What’s Done is Done

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Buck, dentist, dog, food, medicine, mindfulness, wisdom teeth

Well dear readers, what’s done is done. There is no longer any need to obsessively revisit every possible surgical scenario, turning them over and over in my head until they are smooth like river stones. There remains nothing left to do but watch movies, press ice packs to my face, and eat all this soft food in my fridge.

I must say that I am very impressed with the swiftness of my oral surgeon, considering that by every present indication, the roots of my wisdom teeth extended down my throat and wrapped around my hip flexors. (Okay, I actually have no idea how complicated the procedure was. The anesthesiologist started to explain it to me, but when he got to the part about a protective cover placed across my throat to catch any errant tooth fragments I smiled as sweetly as possible and told him that I really, really didn’t want to know.)

Yes, I will admit that it really wasn’t that bad. They stuck a few sensors on my chest and forehead, inserted an IV in my arm, and asked me about my dream vacation. I began to taste a strange vapor in the back of my throat. I said something about France, drifted off to sleep, and awoke in a very good mood. This was no surprise to me, as I had a similar reaction to Demerol the last time it was administered to me. (I was in high school and had been admitted to the emergency room with extreme abdominal pain. The drug’s sweet, sweet relief effected such a dramatic turnaround in my mood that I recommended it be sold over the counter as a headache remedy. I remember that this made the nurse laugh uncomfortably.) I chattered away about stitches and prescriptions and blood clots as best I could with a mouth full of gauze.

My friend remained exceedingly patient and nurturing, aside from two iPhone photos and one request to play the “chubby bunny” game. He drove me home and coached me through the clumsy process of drinking, which looked something like this, only with swollen cheeks and sweatpants. Buck greeted me at the door in an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm. I laid back on the couch and he carefully, thoroughly sniffed my mouth. Next he turned his attention to the Percocet pill that was laying on the coffee table next to me, which got him a solid swat on the nose. He looked back at me, and back at the pill, then laid down next to me, where he has remained for most of the day.

Three hours later – and two hours into the aforementioned dose of Percocet – it finally started to catch up with me. Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh. That’s what it feels like to have four teeth extracted from your head.

I am, in general, extremely drug avoidant. (Yeah yeah, don’t talk to me about coffee and wine. Come on.) Except in the most desperate of situations, I treat most ailments with water and sleep – although large quantities of garlic do wonder for colds, if not for my love life. I don’t routinely keep so much as a bottle of Advil around the house. Most of the time I take health problems as an indication of an imbalance in my lifestyle, and I examine my behavior to determine what modification needs to be made.  I’m fortunate to have had few conditions that required significant medical intervention (with the entire year of age 30 excepted, but that’s a matter for another blog entry. Or not.) Less sun, more water, more vegetables, more sleep, and less contact with toxic personalities have alleviated most of the health problems that I have suffered.

So, dear readers, in the interest of promoting the adoption of preventative and wellness-oriented lifestyle choices I offer you this sage piece of advice from newly-acquired personal experience: avoid having teeth extracted from your head. Now, will someone please pass the Percocet?

Comfort

Tags

cooking, dentist, fear, food, wisdom teeth

I am a big believer in comfort food. I am thankful for the prevalence of the foodie chic culture, as no one seems to judge me too harshly for my inclination to drown my concerns in a delicate béchamel. This is fortunate, because the amassing and consumption of comfort food is high on my agenda this week. You see, I’m a little nervous about tomorrow’s visit to the oral surgeon.

Last winter I underwent inner ear surgery to correct an abnormal bone growth that had impaired my hearing. I would be lying if I denied a certain degree of apprehension leading up to the surgery – or having cried myself to sleep on the gurney outside the operating room – but I was bolstered by the knowledge that the risk would lead to an improvement in my quality of life. And it did.

As it turns out, my recovery was quite painless (aside from a fractured toe that resulted from the dropping of a cast iron skillet on my foot a few hours after the surgery. I was, apparently, too doped up to be cooking. The fact that I can still remember the dropping, but not the landing, of the pot is further evidence of this theory.)

This time around I feel no urgent need to submit myself to a painful operation. My four extra teeth have caused no discomfort. I can floss them without significant effort. I will admit that my upper front teeth have grown crooked in recent years, and that is a clear indication of crowding, but I could probably live with that for a good long time before suffering any serious concern.

I believe my dentist when he tells me that this extraction will prevent serious health problems later in life. But only sort of. Because the bottom line is that they’re my teeth; I grew them, and I would prefer to keep them.

Call it an insistence upon a silver lining, or call it a coping mechanism, but one thing is perfectly clear in my mind: if I’m going to subject myself to an unwanted painful medical procedure, I’m sure as hell going to eat well afterwards.

I started planning my post-extraction diet over the weekend and vowed that there would be no Jello or Spaghetti O’s on the menu. I trekked to the supermarket and loaded up on things that could be liquified, melted, whipped, or puréed. On the theory that I will want maximum caloric consumption with minimum effort, I  (somewhat gleefully) placed a quart of heavy cream in my basket. Because when else do I get to do that?

My kitchen has been a whirlwind of activity since last night. I am stocking my refrigerator with every soft food imaginable – clove and ginger-spiked applesauce, curried butternut squash soup, creamy mashed potatoes, and broccoli bisque. A pot of chicken stock has been reducing on the back burner for twenty four hours while a crock of creme fraiche thickens next to it. And, of course, in my freezer are two pints of gelato.

Yeah, you wish you were having your wisdom teeth pulled.

Tonight one of my closest friends drove down from New Hampshire to spend the night and drive me to my appointment in the morning. It’s a significant favor on his part, but I think he understands that only certain friends can be trusted with post-anesthesia indignities. Also, he is as adept at talking me off of ledges as he is at mashing the lumps out of my potatoes.

I knew that a significant thank you gesture would be in order. Naturally, it was a four-course dinner at a great restaurant. I intend to put my choppers through their paces while I still have them.

Wisdom

Tags

dentist, fear, resolution, wisdom teeth

This Thursday, January 19 is a day of reckoning for my mouth.

I think by most people’s standards I am a responsible adult. I go for my annual physical, pay my bills on time, and almost always make my bed. But I do have one or two immature and irresponsible tendencies, one of which is an irrational fear and subsequent lifelong avoidance of what many people consider to be an oral rite of passage.

I avoided going to the dentist for … well, a lot of years (I just can’t bring myself to put the number in writing) supposedly due to lack of insurance but mostly because I didn’t want to hear bad news.  I particularly feared the dreaded wisdom teeth removal, and although I vaguely remembered some dull jaw pain in my early twenties, I remained for the most part blissfully unaware that I had them. I figured as long as I didn’t go near a dentist’s office I could go on pretending this was true.

As a particular milestone birthday began to loom on the horizon I decided that it was time to be a big girl, cough up the cash, and make my health a priority. So I picked a dentist and began to make regular visits to his office.

My dentist is a young man, well educated and respected in his field. He is a musician by avocation and expects me to discuss my group’s current repertoire in specific detail while he sticks both hands in my mouth. He gives off a whiff of arrogance, but I find his confidence reassuring. His office is within walking distance of my house and is open late three days a week. And he has a very nice receptionist.

At my first appointment in January of 2010 he told me that my mouth looked healthy – remarkably so given the lack of oversight by a dental professional – but that I needed to have my wisdom teeth out. I smiled and nodded.

In August 2010 he told me that I really needed to have my wisdom teeth out. He said something about crowding, impacted blah blah stuff that makes me cringe. I said something about money; he told me it was really quite affordable with local anesthesia. I made some feeble argument about a previously scheduled inner ear surgery for that winter; he assured me that my head could handle two procedures in one season. I silently vowed to sneak out the door, but while I was rinsing my mouth he stepped out and told the very nice receptionist not to let me leave without scheduling the procedure. I booked an appointment for February 18.

I walked home feeling quite proud of myself for having taken this step towards a healthier me. I had booked the appointment. I had no fear.

February 18, 2011 found me not in my dentist’s chair but on a flight to Italy. I wish I could tell you I’m kidding, but I’m not.

When I told the very nice receptionist I would not be coming, she very nicely assured me that it’s not so bad, that lots of people are scared, and that I was welcome to wear headphones to drown out the sound of cracking teeth and hug a teddy bear while the good doctor yanked my head back and forth.

Well okay, she probably didn’t word it exactly like that, but I was too busy wiping my tears to catch the finer details.

I’m pretty sure my dentist thinks I am a gigantic wuss. But when I did finally make it in for my next cleaning I let him know that I simply would not – could not – undergo an extraction in his office under local anesthesia. Frankly, I think tears and a flight to Rome were entirely justified. So he referred me to an oral surgeon, and a few months later (why rush these things?) I was in her chair for a consultation.

She agreed that they have to come out, the sooner the better. I took a deep breath and told her that I would do it, but that being knocked out was imperative – I want not even the vaguest recollection of the procedure. She let me know that at my age, general anesthesia is recommended due to an increased risk of surgical complications.

At my age. Some people think I could pass for a high school student. Not my oral surgeon, apparently.

So I sat down with another very nice receptionist and told her that August wouldn’t work, because I’d like to enjoy my vacation, and the entire fall was booked because of the musical, and December was no good because who wants to be on a liquid diet at Christmas, and January is festival season, and in February there’s Presidents Day …

The very nice receptionist booked me for January 19.

This is, no doubt, not the last you will read of my dental adventures. Because let’s be honest, I’m not thinking about anything else this week. I know that this procedure is performed every day in dentist’s offices all over the world. You’ve probably had it, and it was probably not such a big deal. But I am going to worry and fret until I wake up with a mouth full of packing, because that’s just what I do.

Think of me what you will, but note this: I have not booked any flights this week.