In an effort to distract myself from the black cloud hanging over my head (you know: that black cloud that smells of war, diplomatic melt-down, and impending death), here is a story that includes drugs, children on crutches, a russian, a dutch woman, and me being nearly naked and having my mouth wide open (although not both at once).

One of the advantages of my new job is that I have full medical and dental insurance. It was effective day one of my employment, and believe you me: I’ve been enjoying it.

Within two weeks, I’d made an appointment with a dentist. I picked someone off my insurance company’s website, selecting a woman whose office is a few miles from my home.

I should have known things were weird when I called to make the appointment and the dentist herself answered the phone. I should have thought twice when she gave me directions and told me to look for “the little aqua door, around back from the skin care place.”

But I went anyway.

The little aqua door was indeed behind a skin care place, and directly under a red neon sign that read “DENTIST.” I opened the door to find a cramped, dark waiting room, lit only by the red flickering DENTIST sign. In the room was a young Latino family and their son, who might have been four. He was sadly hobbling around on crutches, sort of like “Tiny Tim South of The Border,” or “Tiny Tim At The Scary Tijuana Dentist Office.”

Did I leave? Oh hell no. I sat down and filled out my paperwork.

Eventually, the dentist was ready for me. She was a heavy set Russian woman who was friendly, but also took advantage of my being in a compromising position (ie head back, mouth open) and tried to sell me teeth whitening services. Dammit, people. Don’t try to sell me shit when all I can do is say “Uh-Uh. Oh hank ooh.”

She did some x-rays and cleaned my teeth. It was revealed that, despite my Sonicare and flossing, I had three (albeit small) cavities. I scheduled an appointment for the next week to get the cavities filled.

The next week I returned and waited for 45 minutes only to be told it would be another half hour. I rescheduled for the next week.

The third time I walked beneath the red glow of the DENTIST sign, horrible things awaited me. I entered the office to hear that plaintive screams of a young child. My dentist ushered me into one of her two tiny exam rooms, and huffed in her thick Russian accent, “I apologize for the musik. This boy, he has loose baby tooth that is impacted. He will not let me take it out.”

Then she shot me full of Novocain and left me alone, reading a YM magazine from 1999.

Then the torment began. For over 10 minutes I listened to that poor boy in the next room scream bloody murder and plead in Spanish with his mother “Por favor mommy…¡lastimará! ¡No! ¡Por favor! ¡lastima!!” I listened to the dental hygienist desperately try to reason with him, “We’re here to make your mouth feel happy!,” and my Russian dentist bark, “Sit on your hands! I cannot help you unless you let me touch your mouth!”

Meanwhile, drool snaked down my chin.

Eventually, mercifully, finally, they managed to hold the boy down long enough to get the tooth out. It was totally anticlimactic. He’d gotten anesthetic gel on his gums and I could tell he didn’t even really feel the tooth come out. All the hollering was pre-emptive. The tooth came out and then there was only quiet sniveling and a lisped “gracias.”

• • •

I’ve also been seeing a chiropractor. He’s a strange little man who smells sort of bad and today confessed that he wants to start an online business of selling vitamins and supplements online. “Is anyone doing that?” he asked me.

“Um, I think so,” was all I could muster.

• • •

And yesterday I had my first appointment with my primary care physician. I picked her like I picked my dentist: close to home, a woman, and (in this case!) European. Studied at the University of Utrecht in the Netherlands. I was mainly just going for an annual exam, but as long as I was there, barely dressed in a little “peek-a-boo” hospital gown, I figured I’d test a theory.

I’ve long read about how doctors have become modern-day pharmacists, dolling out drugs that their patients ask for by name. I wanted to see if it was true.

“So, Doctor,” I said, as she finished up with the exam. “I have a trip to Europe coming up in May, and I’m such a bundle of nerves on flights. Totally white knuckles — which gets exhausting on long flights….”

(I’ll be honest: I don’t get sweatingly nervous on flights, but I’ve found — via grey market valium and over the counter sleeping pills — that sleeping straight through a transatlantic flight is the best way to battle jetlag. And sure: I get a little nervous. Doesn’t everyone?)

I took a breath. “So, Doctor, I was wondering if I could get a couple sedatives for the trip.”

I felt like a drug addict. Did I sound sketchy? I expected her to open her white lab coat and leer at me over dime bags full of pills. She would hand me a bag in exchange for some crumpled cash, and then she’d whisper, “This is some kind shit — straight down from Humboldt.” I’d furtively look around, and tuck the baggy into the open flap of my hospital gown. Either that or a big red neon sign (akin to the DENTIST sign) would appear over my head that read “JUNKIE!” and men in black suits and ear-bud headsets would rustle in, tie me up, and whisk me off to a secret interogation room where I’d be tortured into admitting something untrue and deplorable.

“Are you nervous for the whole flight?” the doctor asked me without batting an eye.

“Mainly just during take off and landing,” I said.

“Ok,” she replied, pulling out her prescription pad, “I’ll give you a prescription for 10 Xanax. That’s enough for five trips to Europe.”

“Thanks,” I said, and the visit was done.

I didn’t know much about Xanax, so I came home and did a little research. Xanax is a benzodiazepine, and a highly addictive one at that. I was amazed at how simple it was to procur such a strong, easily-abused substance. Withdrawal looks pretty hard core. Strangest of all? My HMO is paying for this powerful, mood-altering drug. Bizarre.

United States’ substance control fascinates me. I’m not even to get into the hypocrisy of illegal vs. pharmaceutical drugs, but I’m fascinated by the of the metaphorical alley ways that Americans go down to change their states of mind. It’s interesting to me how the acceptability of non-sobriety differs from state to state (booze only sold in state-run liquor stores in Washington, available at 7-11 in California), and the role that medical practitioners play in helping people get out of their heads.

But for now, I’ll stop getting into socio-medical theory, and just appreciate the fact that I have filled cavities, a well-adjusted back, and sedatives for my flight to Europe. It takes being a freelancer for five years to appreciate the joys of insurance. Remind me that next time I want to freelance full time, I need to move to Canada.