The receptionist takes my dental insurance card, and we both laugh. That coy kind of laugh; both flirtatious and cautious. After all, this is a new relationship. If things go right, and if I like the office, I could be seeing this orthodontist’s office every month for the next two years. It’s a pretty major commitment.
She looks over my dental card, playing with the edges. I rub my hand over my bald head.
“It looks like you are out of network,” she says. We laugh again because we know that when it comes to dental insurance, that makes absolutely no difference. In network implies that there will be some sort of coverage, or at the very least, a discount. Which, of course, is complete bullsh*t.
That’s not the real point of dental insurance cards, at least when it comes to getting braces for your twelve-year-old daughter. The point of a dental insurance card is to break the ice when forming a new relationship with an orthodontist. It gives all parties something talk about while ignoring the fact that metal brackets are going to be attached to my kid’s teeth. I need a blacksmith as much as I need an orthodontist.
“Your lifetime benefit is fifteen hundred,” she says as she hands me a clipboard.
“And what would it be if I was in-network?” I ask.
“Fifteen hundred,” she says.
“Excellent.”
I take the clipboard and sit in the waiting room chairs. Other patients come into the office. A mother and a preteen son who smiles without showing any teeth.
I size them up, listen to their conversations, watch their mannerisms. Can I hang out with these people over the next two years? Are they gonna be cool, or am I going to regret smiling back at them?
I wave at the boy, a hesitant wave, and smile at his mom. She nods, her face firm, and her mascara a bit smeared from crying. I’m guessing she looked at her own dental insurance card.
We connect. I can be best friends with this woman.
My youngest son has joined my daughter and me today. He’s there for moral support, a reminder that I’m going to have to do this again in five years. The office has toys in a basket that he can play with. They are alright toys, nothing spectacular. After what I’m paying for braces, I would expect at least a gold plated train set already set up for my child to play with.
Little Hoss, my twelve-year-old daughter, fidgets next to me as I fill out the remainder of the paperwork. She’s nervous and excited, it’s hard for her to sit still. She’s not afraid, but there is a feeling that she is tired of talking about it and just wants to get things done. She looks at the paperwork.
“Daddy,” she says. “What does collateral mean?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“And how come they want to know how much our house is worth?”
“No reason,” I tell her.
I finish the paperwork and hand it back to the receptionist. She gives me my card. We both know that she didn’t really need to make a copy of it. It’s just part of the orthodontist courtship.
“Mr. Hoss?” another lady says. She’s in blue scrubs, freshly pressed. They probably come from Macy’s. A direct shipment from New York, I have no doubt. If the office isn’t spending money on quality gold plated train sets, then they must be spending it on something else.
I raise my hand slowly, afraid to have my face associated with the very large bill that is coming.
“Come with me, please.”
I take my daughter and my son back, following along as one would when headed to debtors prison. They sit us in an open room, several dentist chairs circle a short stool. It’s obvious that many patients can be worked on at the same time, like a sweatshop for dentistry. I imagine they put us so close together so that we can hold hands as they perform the ritual sacrifice needed to obtain our debit cards.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she says, and then quickly leaves as she probably has an appointment at the Lamborghini dealership.
My son plays in the other chairs, which are all empty at the moment. He takes the different instruments and fumbles them, smacks them against the metal table that is attached to each chair. He’s a good boy, kicking the tires of the product we are buying.
“Hello!” the orthodontist says as he enters the room. His tie is a deep red, the color of blood money, and his teeth are so perfect that they must have cost me a fortune.
“Hello,” I say as I offer my hand. He hesitates before taking it. Is my hand clean enough? Eventually, he decides that the money is worth it and touches me, but that perfect smile falters for a minute.
“Glad you came down,” he says. “Let’s begin the exam.” He snaps on two exotic latex gloves made from the tears of parents.
“Great,” I say and hand over my wallet.
“What do we have here?” The orthodontist turns my wallet over in his hands, studying the seams. He says nothing else as he opens it.
His fingers pry into the pockets and I wonder if I cleaned it enough before coming here. How embarrassing for him to find something from my past that I wouldn’t want him to know about, like the card to another orthodontist. He finds it, pauses, and then chooses to pretend that didn’t happen. My bill just went up 40%.
“Beautiful children,” he says as he looks at the pictures pulled from their sleeves. I put them up front so it’s the first thing you see in my wallet. I know that he’s thinking “future business”.
“Very nice. Yes, very nice,” his mouth slithers “Oh! And a member of AAA.” He pulls out the red, white, and blue membership card.
“Yes. I am a member of AAA,” I say. It’s a lie. I used to be a member of AAA once upon a time, before I had children that didn’t need braces.
Every long lasting relationship is built on lies. For example, I am convincing him that I am a fine member of the community and AAA. He is convincing me that braces are affordable. We both know it’s bullsh*t, but yet, this is how the game is played.
From the tray of tools next to him he takes a mirror on a metal stick. He probes the deeper pockets of my wallet, looking for any change or loose dollar bills. The orthodontist makes a ticking sound with his tongue, and it sounds like a doomsday clock. He replaces the mirror and grabs the tweezers.
He begins removing the cards from my wallet, the ones with magnetic strips on the back. He places them on the metal table to his side. The orthodontist turns on the light above the chairs and positions himself over the cards.
“Do I need…” my daughter begins.
“Shhhh,” he says. “All in good time, my dear.”
He flips over the cards, touches them with his gloved hand, and lets his finger linger over the raised numbers.
“Ok, Mr. Hoss. I think we can work with this. I would prefer that you have more credit cards. Debbie, up front, can help you with that. But it looks like this is a good place to start. We can max all these out by summer and then move on from there. All very common.”
“Ok, sounds great. I love poverty,” I tell him.
We stand and shake hands again. He does not take off his gloves before touching me again.
“Wait,” my daughter says. “Do I need braces?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” the orthodontist says.
He leaves, turns on his heel and I watch him go. The same nurse from before comes in to usher us out.
“We don’t validate parking,” she says
Perfect.
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Originally Published on Hossman-at-home
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Photo Credit: Pixabay