Since going back to my day job about a month ago, I’ve spent at least three days a week trying to figure out my health coverage. My work kept me insured while on sabbatical, and everything had gone smoothly until I the week of my return, when I discovered I could no longer submit claims for reimbursement.
I called customer service, which was “experiencing larger call volumes than usual,” and waited patiently until someone, too cheerfully, told me I’d been “termed,” meaning my coverage ended when my sabbatical ended. When I explained that I was still employed, she said I’d have to talk to my group administrator. So I went through all the official channels to explain the mix-up and came away assured that I was, indeed, covered by my workplace benefits.
However, when I went to the dentist last week to get a filling replaced, they told me I was only covered for travel and, like, massages. No dental, no drugs. I frantically dialled both my work and the insurance company right there in the waiting room, face half frozen and tears in my eyes. My human resources coordinator couldn’t resolve the problem right away, but kept saying, “Try not to worry. It’ll get sorted out.”
What I couldn’t get across to him was the mixture of shame and urgency I felt. It’s the feeling I get whenever my teeth are involved, because I have bad teeth. The kind of teeth that might as well be chalk. And no matter how well I adhere to my onerous multi-step dental hygiene routine, which has gotten kind of ridiculous tbh—specialized tools are involved, and pressure washing—I still get cavities.
That’s why I appreciate it so much when writers like Ijeoma Oluo and Damon Young share stories about their own dental shame. Young’s “my mouth is a memoir” is such a good line.
My experiences have not been as intense as theirs (and I acknowledge my extreme privilege in getting braces when I was young), but I identify with their pain and embarrassment. People see bad teeth as a moral failing, a lack of discipline, but there are many other reasons some of us walk around ashamed of our smiles—including childhood poverty and genetics. And, as Oluo writes, it’s not just emotionally upsetting:
And we are in pain, actual physical pain — every day. Sometimes it’s the sharp pain when chewing, sometimes it’s the dull ache that reminds you that things are likely getting worse, sometimes it’s the throbbing pain that makes you feel like you are going to lose your mind.
Anyway, I’m still sorting out my insurance, and I’ve been on the phone multiple times today to get answers from reps who keep putting me on hold for unreasonably long periods, even when my questions seem pretty simple, like, “So am I covered?”
The answer to this question is pressing and crucial because my gold crown is cracked and needs replacing. I’ve had it since university and it’s been the bane of my mouth for more than 20 years, flashing inappropriately during photographs and calling way too much attention to itself when I laugh or smile big. Also, it gets icy cold in the wintertime.
I didn’t have regular dental care until I went to university and got student coverage, and I chose the gold crown because it was the “value” option. And it did last a long time. I will be glad to see it go though, even if it means my skeleton becomes slightly less valuable, lol. Then I will be free, at least until another mortifying dental situation arises. Surely I will be covered?
:) Teresa
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I can so relate to dental shame, although mine has mostly been about orthodontia, rather than my teeth themselves. I even did a storytelling performance about this five years ago. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vI3IvmAMgEc&feature=youtu.be (And how clever of you to relate your crown to the adornment crown, and of course with QEII passing recently, of course I was also thinking of The Crown. So many layers here!)