Adventures in Mexican Dentistry

My teeth have always been messed up. To look at my mouth is to gaze into a neglected cemetery with the tombstones all placed askew. Needless to say it has never been a pretty sight. In fact, there was even an anonymous MySpace account created to poke fun at me. When I was growing up, my parents were more afraid of the INS than the IRS, so they had convinced themselves that there was some sort of conspiracy that involved the INS being called in every time a Mexican was caught using services usually relegated to “real citizens.” My dad would say things like, “Don’t order that pizza, because that is exactly what they want you to do. They want you to open that door so that they can bust in and take everyone to San Ysidro. Is that what you want?”

By the time I reached the peak of my blossoming as young adult, my teeth looked like they were throwing gang signs. I was waiting to hear from Steve Buscemi to call me up and hire me as his wingman, so I could take the focus off from him. Unfortunately, I chose to live by my family’s credo when it comes to health care or home repair. If it is not rotten, there is no excuse to fix it.

One day my luck ran out. I was eating some of my mom’s patented capirotada, and my front tooth turned into dust. From that moment on, my mom told me that it needed fixing, but by that time, I was no longer covered under their medical insurance, and I did not have the kind of job that offered medical insurance. My mother and father had their version of an intervention with me – which more or less ran like a public shaming – in order to convince me to seek a dentist, and while I was unable to pay for one here it was decided that Mexico would be a suitable alternative. It was a win-win situation, because I would get to go on a trip and spend all of my recovery time in Michoacán.

I must admit, I acted like an ugly American tourist when I got to the dentist’s office. The practice was a two floor operation. The first floor was a waiting room where people came and went as they pleased. There was no receptionist, so it was mob rule to determine who went next. I remember there was a donkey in there as well. The second floor looked like one of the Saw movies. It was dark and somewhat intimidating. The dentist introduced himself and proceeded to probe my mouth without asking me what was wrong. And when he did ask me, he had his fingers in my mouth as I attempted to talk. He agreed with my muffled complaints, and proceeded to scrape my teeth with something that looked like a windshield that had fallen off a Transformer. Although the procedure was invasive, it was not painful. The novacaine was plenty strong since I was dozing off and asking him about the donkey. The last thing I remember hearing was that the donkey had better teeth than me and was only there for a cleaning.

I ‘m starting to have problems with my teeth again, but now I have insurance. I figured I could go with my local provider and I would be in and out in a couple of hours. The technician made me feel like dirt. He assumed that I only spoke Spanish and he turned and told one of the assistants. “Oh my God, this guy looks like Thursday, except all of the problems are in one mouth.” The doctor made me feel dirt. He told me, “Mr. Barajas, if your teeth were children, and I was the state, I would be forced to take them away.” Needless to say, there was nothing he could do for me, so he booked an appointment for me with the specialist. This whole dentistry mission has become like going to the mechanic for a smog check only to be sold a mud flap aligning system. I went in there for one thing and now they want me to sign off on twenty procedures – pending insurance approval of course. I should have known something was wrong when there wasn’t a friendly donkey greeting me at the door.