Incompetent Quacks Masquerading as Dentists

Let me tell you a story. A brief one to be sure, as my lower jaw is throbbing in counterpoint to my tapping of the keys. I feel the need to share this, however, as you may be the next unwitting victim to this overpaid, underschooled charlatan.
Several years ago, in the midst of my legal nightmare (completely of my own doing, to be sure) I had the luck to be warehoused in our local State hold for IDOC inmates, up in the lovely town of Wallace. My stay there was fairly uneventful, and due to it being such a small facility- really just an underpopulated jail, which because of needed funds, they'd volunteered to house state prisoners as well as their own local miscreants.
The food was pretty decent, the rules were relaxed; the jail employees even encouraged us to refer to them by their first names, which lent an air of casualness to the whole thing. And as far as doctor and dental visits went, the inmates merely filled out a request, and when the time came, were escorted on foot down the Main Street of town- wearing the jail jumpsuit and shackled, of course, with two deputies on either side- to the office a few blocks up, pretending to think nothing of the numerous traffic and pedestrians casting us strange looks.
So after a month or two of residence in this laid-back little two-horse town, I decided to fill out a request to get a back tooth refilled- partly because I knew the work needed done eventually, mostly because I looked forward to the little field trip. Not too many days later, I heard my name hollered out down the cellblock, telling me to suit up and be ready to roll out in a few minutes.
We made the journey uneventfully- walking in shackles can be a painful ordeal, but my short legged stride and the fact I'd learned to prepare for such trips with two pairs of socks on to lend padding made the journey bearable. And let me tell you, after months of virtual isolation, people watching was a complete thrill. The sounds of traffic, the children at play... all the chaotic jumple of sounds, sights, smells and colors of a small town in action was quenching a thirst I'd not realized I had.
The dentist's office was like any other at first glance- magazines months out of date, fake plants, brochures from pharmaceutical companies littering every spare surface. We got some raised eyebrows from the duo of law-enforcement escorts and my inmate duds, but the receptionist was expecting us and ushered us back to the room where the drills and what-not would soon begin their humming. I sat gingerly in the too-large chair, testing out the arms that I knew I'd soon be white-knuckling.
When the D.D.S deigned to grace us with his presence an interminable amount of time later, I tempered my irritation with rationalizing that, a) he's a busy guy, all dentists are. b) I'm near or at the bottom of the totem pole due to my latest housing assignment I'd gotten myself into. c) my lil 'ol filling has to be one of the doc's more mundane procedures, nothing like caps an implants and root canals.
Introductions were made, injections were administered, and the tools began to buzz. I'd managed to distance myself from the whole distasteful ordeal, lost somewhere in la-la land (and not from nitrous, either- lowly prisoners are afforded no such luxuries) when my reverie was rudely disturbed by a resounding crack! I happened to be looking up at the dentist's face at the time, the part unobscured by his mask, and there was an unmistakable look of dismay which darkened his brow. This did not inspire confidence on my part, let me tell you.
At that point, everything came to a screeching halt. The tools were withdrawn, the spit-sucker turned off, my mouth allowed to close. After a hushed conversation with the assistant, the dentist rearranged his expression to reflect a grave, hesitant yet caring demeanor as he hunkered down to the side of my chair.
"Ms... Goodrick, is it?" he asked, referring to my chart, "We seem to have run into a problem. You see, as I was sanding away the previous filling to make space for the new, my drill skipped and unfortunately cracked the tooth quite badly. Now, normally this wouldn't be much of a problem, because most insurance would cover the cost of the additional repair work. However, because of your being incarcerated, you're under the policies of the Dept of Correction, who only cover extractions or necesssary fillings." He looked away at this point, I doubt it was because of embarrasment at his mistake, probably just to sneak a look at his watch. "So you see, I'll have to extract the molar instead- let me prepare a few more lidocaine injections, and we'll get started!"
Groggy from the procedure thus far, confused at what had just happened, and intimidated by this blustering buffoon, I'm ashamed I didn't speak up, just let the guy jerk out a perfectly good tooth (well, before his ineptness busted the damn thing in half, the only thing wrong with it was a need for a surface filling.) And of course once I had a mouth full of bloody gauze, I couldn't complain if I wanted to.
Fast forward a few years. This dentist, who I'll perhaps nickname Dr. Jerk, apparently caused more damage than I had originally thought. Now that I have the freedom to visit my own choice of practicioners, I've found a great guy, who after consulting my ex-rays informed me that there was a large fragment of broken jaw bone embedded in that lower socket, most likely from an overzealous extraction by you-know-who. At the time, we decided to hold off on slicing me open and removing it, as at that point it wasn't interfering with anything.
Last night I noticed some sensitivity on my lower left cheek, and upon prodding and poking, realized it was the exact site of the ex-tooth! I grouched about it to my husband, reminding him of the awful Dr. Jerk, but went to bed without giving it another thought.
The baby started hollering for his middle of the night bottle feeding around three-ish, and upon staggering out of bed and into the kitchen, I realized the sensitive little lump had become a full-fledged agonizing golf ball of pulsing swollen heat. After feeding the little guy and getting him back to dreamland, I peered into the living room mirror, and with a sinking feeling, saw my familiar visage had been replaced by one of the chipmunk families'.
Of course it's Sunday. I didn't make it to church, had to call off a dinner I was planning to invite four of our family members to, and the baby duties have fallen on Tony so far today (thank God he was home to help, and not out of town). And my dentist is closed, so hopefully tomorrow they'll be able to fit me in.
I'm not sure what the moral of this story is. I do know, as a former meth user, I'm very fortunate not to suffer from extensive dental problems. I guess the everyday problems, however, I should have held off on addressing until I could go to a dentist of my choosing, rather than a cut-rate hack who views inmates as second-class citizens, unworthy of decent care.