Dentally Incorrect

Notes and Observations from Chicago Midwinter Meeting

Choosing to ignore arrows and signs indicating which way to go, I follow—from a distance—a group of attendees who walk with confidence in a different direction. A full minute later, I find myself in a conference for people pushing essential oils. A woman tells me she no longer needs a root canal after using peppermint extract on her affliction. There are hundreds of people here who believe her. I flee, horrified, and easily find the hotel bar. A finger of scotch at 10 a.m. gets me back to baseline.

In two hours of abstract wandering of the exhibit hall, I have come across only pens and a foam finger, of which I request three. I don’t know why; I don’t even want them. Booths with greater swag are heavily guarded with bright-eyed and commission-powered reps, and I’m too hung over to battle their pointed quips for the plastic treasure I yearn for. Meanwhile, my hygienist won a $50 gift card within minutes of arriving and now struggles to carry a new TV back to her room. How? Why?

A Freddie Mercury impersonator is on stage, nailing every note and nuance of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I suddenly believe I can sing and, cured of my lifelong tone deafness, belt out the final lines with shut eyes: “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all!” Seconds later, eyes open to a mixed bag of less than favorable expressions. Concerned dance floor patrons stare. “Goodbye everybody,” I say to them. “If I’m not back again this time tomorrow ... carry on, carry on.”

When my wife later asks me about Chicago, I tell her I earned many CE credits, nothing more. She asks why I smell like peppermint oil. I answer by playfully poking her nose with a foam finger. “It helps with the pain, dear,” I tell her.