Rectifying Birds

They tried to warn me. At the staff meeting this morning. Yup. They tried. About what, you ask? Oh, that my ten o' clock patient was a real doozy. I believe the exact word used was: "Crotchety." Awesome. Those crotchety people are my absolute fave. In fact, I prefer them. NOT. I used to fret and stew over difficult patients--you know, the ones with a reputation in the dental office. The ones that only require a mere mention of their name and the whole office shudders and then gives a collective, unspoken nod of understanding. I would anxiously watch the clock until the dreaded hour came when I would have to see Mrs. Stuck Up or Mr. Jerkypants. It was like a ticking time bomb. Dread. Absolute dread. I've now learned that there is nothing I can do from stopping these people from coming through that front door and into my operatory. It's like Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." They'll find you--anywhere. And when they do, they pick and peck apart your sanity. It. Is. Painful. Today, he found me. And I'd even been warned.

I brought said "doozy, crotchety" patient back to review his medical history in a separate consultation room. First, he told me I had the wrong patient pulled up on the screen. Hmm. I doubt that there is another patient by your first and last name, sir. What? Is there another patient in this office who just happens to be taking the EXACT list of medications you claim to take? Does that patient miraculously have the same birthday and physical ailments you do, too, including (but not limited to): an appendectomy at the age of 14, a hernia, glaucoma, high blood pressure, hives/rash, gout, arthritis, and difficulty breathing, sir? I sincerely doubt it. I really do. But, if so, then that would be a freakin' miracle, wouldn't it, sir? So, let me just pretend to check to make sure I have the right "John Doe" when I am 110% positive that I do. You know how I know this? Because I'm not an invalid.
It gets better. Mid-sentence he interrupts me and as if I have earmuffs on he yells: "I'M HERE FOR A CLEANING."

I paused. I blinked. I looked him in the eye. And then I punched him in the face. OK. I didn't do that. But you better believe my fist thought about it real hard. Nothing would have given me more satisfaction than to have knocked number 9 from his maxilla (the only front tooth left dangling--and I do mean"dangling"). But instead of throwing down, I smiled, warmly (emphasis added), and simply stated, "Right. That's what we have you down for" (&*%^$@).

After we made it through our FIRST 3 MINUTES of the appointment, I escorted him back to my operatory, or as I like to call it, The Serenity Room. That's a story for another day and time, but let's just say there is a giant picture of a beautiful island oasis and I pretend I am there with Edward Cullen (I mean, my sweet Jason) most days instead of scraping "sugar bugs" and sucking spit from people's rotten teeth. As I was pathetically attempting (and failing) to make conversation with my favorite patient in the whole wide world, he looks at me, and again, spits out another interruption: "You talk too fast."

Again. The trembling fist. I jammed it into my pocket. I've worked TOO hard to lose my license now! He will NOT take this from me!

Me: "Yeah. And I mumble, too. My husband tells me all the time."

And here it is, the line of the day, quote of the year, word of my lifetime. You ready?

Mr. Crotchety: "You need to rectify that problem."

More blinking. And then do you know what I did? I laughed. Out loud. I laughed for two reasons: 1) Because I haven't heard the word "Rectify" for at least 2 years and had forgotten completely that it existed and 2) because that's what people do when they are in shock. Their comprehension drains from their head to their toes and then sputters out in the form of laughter. Un-freakin-believable. My response?

"Oh. Right. I'll add that to my list of things I need to do to improve myself. There's just SO many."

Does it go without mention that he had one of the nastiest mouths I've ever seen? That he doesn't floss and brushes maybe once a day? Do I really need to tell you that he acted shocked when I told him his teeth were loose and that they were going to fall out of his head? And that I literally had to hold them stable with my fingertip while I scaled them? Does it? Well. Now you know.

After he left, my front office manager came back to talk to me. I thought, "Oh, no. Here it comes. I'm going to get it." But do you know what she said to me: "YOU, young lady, have a huge fan!"

What?! NOOOO! I NEVER want to see him again! Ever (that's why I scheduled him with the other hygienist who happens to be in Hawaii for his next cleaning. You snooze, you lose!). That's right. Mr. Crotchety wants to see me next time. What have I done? I should have punched him. I should have! But like I said earlier, he would have found me anyway. I'm a magnet for those kind of people. It's the Lord trying to teach me patience and me just not getting it. Or blatantly refusing to. Birds. They're everywhere. I'm going for the right hook next time. It's my only defense.