The Tooth, the Whole Tooth, and Nothing But the Tooth

The truth is, I didn’t become a dental assistant out of some noble desire to help people smile brighter. No, ma’am. I went to dental assisting school for one very personal, very practical reason: I needed my teeth fixed. And fast.

Growing up in East Texas, dental care was simple, if it hurt, pull it. If it rotted, pull it. If it didn’t fall out on its own by your thirties, congratulations, you got dentures. I watched my mama struggle with those things for years, clacking around in her mouth like she had marbles under her tongue, always worried they’d fly out during a good laugh or a sneeze. I was determined to avoid that fate. And what better way than getting hired at a dentist’s office where they fixed staff teeth for free?

So, there I was: freshly certified, bright-eyed, and crooked-smiled, working my first job at a dental group with multiple dentists. One of the doctors offered free care one Saturday a month, which meant, you guessed it, the newbie got the Saturday shift.

Now, you haven’t truly lived until you’ve taken X-rays for a walk-in patient who says, “My cheek hurts,” and you think it’s internal. This gentleman had a beard that looked like it had been collecting breadcrumbs since 1983, so I didn’t inspect too closely at first. Gloves on, I’m taking the X-ray, and suddenly I feel something…wet. And not mouth wet, wrong wet.

I leaned in.

There was a hole.
In…His…Cheek!
I could see his teeth through his actual face. An abscessed tooth had eaten through his cheek like a backyard raccoon through week-old lasagna.

I ran to the back like I’d seen a ghost and said to the doctor, “You’ll want to see this. It’s... not a dental problem anymore, it’s a construction zone.”

Another day, a woman came in complaining of a toothache. I was mid-X-ray, just holding the little film and positioning her, when her two front teeth fell out. Like, plunk, onto my gloved hand. No warning, no drama, just “Hi there, I’ll be needing that back.” I told her I’d be right back and ran to find the dentist, teeth still in my palm like I’d pulled off a magic trick.

"Look," I told him, “I just did your job. You're welcome.”

But the best story, my personal favorite, was the day we were placing a beautiful porcelain bridge. It was perfect. Sculpted. Glossy. A true work of art.

The dentist carefully took it from my tray, turned to the patient, and just as he reached out to place it…

Bloop.
Gone.

Down the black abyss of the patient’s throat like it was a Tic Tac.

I froze.
He froze.
The patient blinked and said, “Did I just swallow it?”

The dentist took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eyes, and said, “Well…yes. When it passes… just bring it back in.”

And she did.

Let me just say: no amount of sterilization will ever undo the memory of that bridge being handed back in a Ziploc bag. I nearly passed out in the break room.

Ah, the glamorous life of a dental assistant. I came for the free dental work and stayed for the trauma, the drama, and the unexpected comedy of it all.

And yes, I finally got my teeth fixed.