I’m ashamed to admit how lax I’ve been over the years about going to the dentist. I’ve avoided routine visits, preferring to go only when the pain left me no alternative. I’ve paid the price for my ignorance.
I think my aversion — or cowardliness — is rooted in the fact that the first time I was in a dentist chair, I fainted. I’m serious. I remember as a youngster, my dad took me to a dentist-pal of his who he called “a great guy.”
My father always referred to people he got along with as “great guys.” It mattered little how good they were at their chosen professions — the only prerequisite needed to do business with dad was to be nice to him. Whether you were fitting my brothers or me for shoes or performing open heart surgery, you’d get the thumbs-up go ahead, as long as you had dad’s “great guy” seal of endorsement. Ability was secondary, at best.
So there I was, a pre-teenager sitting in the chair when Dr. P. (I’ll not tell you his full name, just the letter “P” as in pepper) was drilling a back tooth. He had forewarned me that “it might hurt a little.” Obviously, this was my first experience with a mechanical woodpecker going nuts in my mouth. The pain was so excruciating that I simply blacked out. Coming to, I found myself alone in the room. Shortly thereafter, enter Dr. P. with my father. I still remember him telling dad, in a panic-stricken voice, that the drill was still in my mouth. Apparently, I had scared the wits out of this great-guy dentist and he ran out of the room, seriously considering fleeing to Canada.
I got sent home after he pried my mouth open and reclaimed his drill. He told my dad to bring me back in a week and he’d finish the job. As we were leaving his office, the dentist nonchalantly tossed something at me saying, “Hey, Tommy, you forgot your balloon.” It wasn’t even inflated.
My dad looked down at me — my mouth still bloodied and swollen — and said, “Isn’t he a great guy?”
The thought of having to go back to him again gave me nightmares so vivid, I can still recall them:
I’m sitting in that chair and Dr. P. eerily bends over, looks me in the eyes and says, “This might hurt a little.” He calmly places three sticks of dynamite between my teeth, lights the fuses and then runs out the door screaming, “Clear the building!”
Can you see my apprehension about returning, even now? Any dentist, like Dr. P, that has a hatchet on his dental-tool tray worries me.
Well, nonetheless, I did return. I had no options. I made an appointment to see Dr. I (as before, I’ll not tell you his full name, just the letter “I”, as in Igoe). He took me in right away. I thought “What a great guy!” After realizing my assessment, I was worried.
Due to my condition, Dr. I. gave me a prescription for something to reduce the swelling. There was little he could do until the infection was under control. He told me to return in two days. He also gave me a prescription for some medication to cope with the pain. It worked quite well. In fact, it worked very well! I did, however, suffer side-effects: drowsiness, loopiness and a craving to listen to my old Jefferson Airplane albums.
Upon returning to his office, Dr. I. had one of his lovely assistants, K, as in Karen, prep me for slaughter ... I mean, for whatever it was he was about to do. New technology in the field astonished me. He strolled in and informed me, “This might hurt a little.” That’s all he had to say for my inner self to blast out of that chair like a Trident missile.
Unfortunately, it left my body behind to face the consequences of my neglect.
With a couple of numbing shots he “froze” me up enough to change Al Gore’s opinion about global warming. I’m not going to lie, there was some “sting” involved. But whose fault was that? Not the doctor’s. He did a great job putting a train wreck back on track. And to him and his staff, I’m very grateful.
Odd part is, even without getting a balloon, my dad would have really liked him — he’s a great guy.
And that’s the way it looks from the Valley.
Contact Tom Valley at Tvalley@rochester.rr.com.
