An Open Letter to My (Former) Dentist with the Unbelievably Extravagant Waiting Room
How much am I paying for this, anyway?
Dear (Former) Dentist With the Extravagant Waiting Room,
I wish I knew for sure whether your receptionist is calling my name, so muffled is her voice on the other side of the stone fountain that blocks both our views.
From her perch behind the sliding welcome window, she’s craning her neck to see around the gargantuan structure as she repeats a two-syllable word that sounds familiar. What audio isn’t swallowed up within the fountain’s concrete is drowned out by water flowing from the top down through its four tiers, or echoed into the abyss of the decorative dome ceiling above.
I’ll say this: What your waiting room lacks in functional acoustics, it certainly makes up for in its fervor to resemble architectural elements from the Byzantine period.
Look. It’s your dental practice. But this exorbitant environment is a bit of a turn-off.
Do you think the sound of flowing waters and those grabby exotic plants that line the hall from the waiting room to the dental chair will distract me from the consequences of not having adequately flossed? Are you expecting the hand-painted tile floor and custom wainscoting to erase all knowledge that anesthesia makes me vomit?
When I go over the itemized bill from your office, an amount nearly twice that on bills I’ve received from other dentists, this is what I’ll remember.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the care with which you designed the space. Natural light. Fairly comfortable chairs. Clean surroundings. The little fridge with bottles of water next to the hybrid snack-and-coffee bar: nice.
But the multiple matching raindrop chandeliers won’t make me forget that when my mouth is open for longer than five minutes, my jaw locks.
As I get up to confirm if indeed I hear my name, I realize this waiting room doesn’t quite have enough seats for those who are…waiting. As a (now standing) patient I’m concerned that time and money spent on form has taken away that which perhaps should have been spent on function.
You have freely shared with your patients that you’re the first tenant of this space and boasted your desire for “the best waiting room” in town. It wasn’t my name being called, so now I have more time to wonder: best for whom? And at whose expense does this dream come true? Perhaps you and the bank are in this together. Maybe you came into family money and an inheritance paid for the whole shebang. Or maybe the filling that came loose on my second premolar covered the bill.
(An amount I can’t help but wonder would be reduced had the tiles been a bit more uniform and the ceiling stopped well short of a drastic change in altitude.)
I glance over at a corner where your youngest patients are supposed to bide their time. As an educator and parent, I appreciate a good dedicated space for children. Might I suggest that a bin of Duplo blocks and a stack of picture books as an excellent replacement for the Kids Corner! section that currently houses a bouncy couch, a pair of screen devices attached to the walls, and an antique train on a bronze track with the sign, “Please don’t touch.”
My appointment time has rushed past, or so says the Volanus wall clock with its visible gold gears. Just below it, I read the ironic, calligraphy-formed message on the walnut-framed chalkboard sign: “We maintain a strict on-time policy. If you are more than 15 minutes late, your appointment will be canceled and you will be charged a fee.”
I guess that fountain isn’t paying for itself.
Sincerely,
Your (now former) patient,
~ Rhonda
