The Postscript: Words about teeth

“I don’t know many words about teeth,” I told the dentist.

Since my husband, Peter, and I spend time in Mexico, it makes sense to get dental work done while we’re here, and I had been putting off going to the dentist. I knew I needed to get work done where my gums had receded, and the enamel no longer covered what it was supposed to. I’ve been told that over-exuberant toothbrushing contributes to this condition, so I’ve been trying to ease off. But I don’t really think my toothbrush is the cause. I’m just getting old.

“Do you have the expression ‘long in the tooth’ in Spanish?” I asked the dentist and dental hygienist in Spanish.

I like this dentist. His name is Patricio. He is young and works quickly. He has a nice waiting room with a comfortable purple couch and a dental hygienist who doubles as his receptionist. As far as I can tell, they are the only two working at the office. They are open six days a week, and until 8 p.m. on weekdays. So, even with a short break in the afternoon, it’s a long day. This is why I was sitting in his chair at 6:30 in the evening, chatting about long teeth.

“It’s what we say about horses,” I continued, while Patricio prepared his tools.

“Horses?” Patricio looked confused.

“The animal?” I clarified. Sometimes even when I know a word, I panic and think I have just said “cowboy” instead of “horse,” and am describing long-toothed cowboys.

“Yes, a horse,” Patricio confirmed.

“We look at their teeth to see how old they are. If they are old, they have long teeth. And so it’s how we describe something that is old. It is long in the tooth.”

I knew Patricio was busy with his dental preparations, but a part of him was puzzling over why the length of horses’ teeth had any relevance.

“So, I am an old horse,” I concluded triumphantly. “I have long teeth!”

The dental hygienist laughed, but I’m pretty sure this was because I was a crazy gringa, not because I had managed to communicate anything meaningful.

“I’m sorry,” I added. “I don’t know many words about teeth.”

So, as he worked, Patricio patiently taught me words about teeth. I learned saliva and resin and anesthesia (which were almost the same as in English), and gums (which was totally different), and a verb that described what he was doing with the drill (which I immediately forgot), and several other words Patricio thought I should know. The whole thing went much faster than expected.

“How many teeth did you do?” I asked when he finished.

“Five,” he said.

“Wow! You are fast.”

I told Patricio, in English, that I had meant to do this work a long time ago and was happy to have it done today. I think he understood, but I wish I could have said it in Spanish. I haven’t studied Spanish in more than a year, and I feel badly that I haven’t put in a little more effort. But I know the words I learned while sitting in Patricio’s dentist chair are much more likely to be remembered than any I would learn in a classroom.

I looked at my teeth in a hand mirror shaped like a tooth and admired Patricio’s work. I looked much less like a long-toothed horse, and the price was very affordable. I will be back on Monday to get the rest of my teeth fixed. And learn a few more new words about teeth.

Till next time,

Carrie

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Carrie Classon is married to Havre native Peter Heimdahl. Her memoir, “Blue Yarn: A Memoir About Loss, Letting Go, & What Happens Next,” was published in 2019. Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.