October 2019
Last week, I ventured to a little border town in Mexico all because a tight-lipped endodontist I’d been referred to in the states wouldn’t quote the cost of a root canal and crown before my upcoming appointment with him. Driving eight hours out of spite probably wasn’t the most sane or rational decision to make while my tooth was throbbing, but I did it. And you can too.
No passport? No problemo!
My mother and I departed Fort Worth on a Friday morning and drove eight hours to McAllen, TX. McAllen, unlike Weslaco, TX which is right on the border of Nuevo Progresso, has a lot more hotels, restaurants, shopping and even a few tourist attractions if you are inclined to make your venture down south more of a vacation. We opted for a reasonably priced chain that offered a free hot breakfast, which my mother and I both devoured before taking off for our appointments at the Texas Dental Clinic, which if I’m being totally honest, I’d picked because of the name.
After Google maps guided our twenty-five-minute drive from McAllen, we arrived at the International Bridge. On the right side of the street there is a parking lot with an attendant and it only costs $2.00 for the entire day. From the lot, we slowly made our way to the bridge. My mom is eighty-seven-years-old with back issues, so we ambled, which was fine by me. Experienced travelers sped by us with a sense of purpose carrying empty reusable bags or carts and appropriate change, which you don’t really need. I was surprised to discover that even cheaper than the parking lot rate was the rate to cross from the United States into Mexico. We each handed the attendant a dollar, which he exchanged for four quarters to feed the turnstile. And with four drops of our coins, we were on our way to another country. Easy peasy lemon squeezy!
As we walked across the bridge, people below us called out for money, even directing their pleas for dinero to the “American lady with the green pants.” Me. Once we reached the lower part of the bridge, a few cupped hands stretched through the slots hoping for some American change. (Aren’t we all?) Because I didn’t want to rifle through my wallet when I was carrying a considerable wad of cash for the dentist, I decided I’d catch them on the way back.
Once we entered the main drag, NAME OF STREET, it got a little claustrophobic for my liking. The left side of the sidewalk was lined with vendors (honey, hats, fake designer purses, sunglasses and t-shirts), while the right side of the street was jam-packed with pharmacies, dental offices, nail salons, barbers and various stores selling everything from Talavara tile to Tequila. Every few feet, men and women held out business cards, “Dentist, pharmacy, Botox, pedicure,” which at forty-nine-years of age and eight hours in the car with my mother, pretty much summed up everything I needed to feel or at least appear human again. I jest, my mom is a lovely traveling companion. I searched my phone’s map. The Texas Dental Clinic was on the next block across the street. While the people hawking their various services were plenty, they pretty much left you alone if you walked on by or said “no, thanks.” There was always someone right behind you.
Once inside the small, crowded clinic, I informed the receptionist that we had an appointment at 11 and then took a seat. As the clock ticked past 11:30, I realized that our appointment time was more of a guesstimate—just like in America. To kill the time, as I was unsure of my International phone surfing charges, I struck up a conversation with the man next to me. He lived in Mexico and was escorting his sister and two of her friends from Austin to the dentist. They were all frequent flyers who hailed this clinic as one of the best, which made me feel as if I’d made the right choice.
Seeing as she only needed a check-up and a cleaning, my mom was called in first. From the lobby, I could hear her chatting away and charming whomever was working on the interior of her mouth. When it was my turn to go back, I didn’t have much of an opportunity to chat. The female dentist asked the reason for my visit.
“According to my dentist back home I need a root canal on this tooth right here,” I pointed to the painful tooth in the back corner of my mouth. “I just got it crowned in June.” She nodded in understanding, then asked me to open wide. Her assistant placed some sort of x-ray thing into the back of my mouth, then the dentist coolly looked at the image on the computer screen.
“Yes, you need a root canal.”
And with that, she instructed me to open wide again, while sneakily producing a large needle seemingly out of nowhere.
Wait, what? Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?
I, of course, complied without protests as she shot a shit load of Novocaine into the roof and gums of my mouth. Much to my dismay, there was no gentle swabbing of numbing cream beforehand or cooing with a pained facial expression that “I was going to feel a sting as she inserted the needle into my tender flesh.” Nope. At this point, I felt a wee bit sorry for myself. How could she be so insensitive? Isn’t that part of the job of the dentist, to warn me of impending discomfort? Or was I just being a pampered, American wimp?
I hate to admit this, even to myself, but I think it was the latter. She left me while my mouth, along with my feelings, became numb.
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