Dental Flashback

Today I am battling mouth sores again - they are not as bad as the first bout, but I definitely have a few breakthrough cankers. I got to thinking about mouth health and how susceptible I was to canker sores when I was young which made me remember various dentists who helped me along the way. Here is one of my earliest memories of dentists!

His office was just down the street from our house in the little border village of Fort Covington. Before third grade, I only knew of him from my Father who had gone to have a tooth pulled. That alone scared me because my Father never goes to doctors or dentists unless its extremely serious. His philosophy is to just tough it out and most things self correct and end up being no big deal. So for him to have gone was a big deal. Worse yet, when he came home, Mom shooed us away because he had had a hard time. Seems the roots of his teeth are bent and extracting meant digging and rooting around to get those broken off tips properly removed.

I remember Mom describing how the dentist had leaned his knee on Dad's chest trying to get the proper leverage, and how excruciating it was for Dad. True, Dad looked a bit pale and though in typical Dad fashion, he insisted he was fine, he actually laid down in the middle of the day! Unheard of! Well, it all blew over and I didn't think much about the dentist for awhile, even though I sometimes stared at the lace curtained windows of his waiting room and thought how uninviting the whole brick building was.

In third grade, they began a dental hygiene program at school. Some government program provided all the accouterments of teaching us tooth care, even to the point of having someone dress up as a tooth and brandish a huge toothbrush the size of a grown man. The hygienist had a lot of sets of fake teeth and we all practiced brushing the mock ups with her sample toothbrushes. Then we all were given our own new toothbrush and toothpaste and told to see a dentist for a check up.

There was no help for it. Despite my preference to ignore stuff unless it blew up to the point of excruciating pain, I was scheduled to see the dentist, and the guy across the street from us offered the most reasonable rates - free to the preacher's kids! Mom took us over a few at a time. We climbed the wooden steps that seemed to stretch upwards forever and open the heavy wooden door with the fancy glass window in it.

The waiting room was paneled in dark wood, and a stairway led up to the living quarters on the second floor. We sat timidly on the uncomfortable chairs waiting for someone to notice that we had arrived. Mom didn't have to tell me to be quiet and sit still. The room was not conducive to playing or chatter. It reminded me of a funeral parlor with its heavy dark drapes and sparse decor. There was a strange, sickening antiseptic smell in the air. Every once in awhile we heard the whine of a drill and muffled conversations behind the closed door at the far end of the waiting room.

My stomach was tied in knots and the palms of my hands were sweaty. I nervously licked my lips and swallowed. Finally the door opened and a man came out holding his puffy cheek. He walked past us without saying anything and left. I turned my eyes to the open door and saw an older gentleman with white hair and wire rimmed glasses. He nodded to my Mom and she sent my brother in first. Visions of the heavy older gentleman with his knees on my Father's chest floated before me and I strained to hear what was going on behind the closed door.

I fiddled with my pants pocket, twisting the fabric in a knot then loosening it. After a bit I wandered over to the bay window and peered outside, watching my friends play hopscotch across the street and wishing I were out there with them. Mom was reading a magazine and not paying any attention to my discomfort. In what seemed a very short time, Pete came out and I knew I was next.

Slowly I walked across the squeaky wooden floor. My heart was pounding in my ears and I thought I was going to either pass out or throw up. Inside the small examining room was a tan recliner type chair, a movable tray with all sorts of odd looking metal tools of torture on it, and tiny little white porcelain sink with water swirling around the edge and down the drain.

I sat meekly in the chair, jumping when the dentist put the bib around my neck. He didn't say much more than "open wide" and as I gazed into his glasses, I resisted the urge to suggest that he was surely old enough to retire and that perhaps he should consider it immediately. My hands gripped the arms of the chair in a death grip and my legs were so tense I had cramps in them. Mostly he just poked and prodded around in my mouth and told me the same thing every dentist I have ever seen tells me - "you have a very small mouth." Go figure.

Somehow I never quite got beyond the image of the dentist with his knees on my Dad's chest prying out teeth with pliers. Perhaps it explains my reticence to address the canker sores I struggled with all through childhood. When they got really fierce, the whole side of my cheek in size, I would finally break down and dab a bit of oil of cloves on them. The burning only lasted a few minutes before the sores puckered over. Of course, you tried not to swallow or your whole throat would go numb.

I had no idea they were caused by a virus. Thank goodness for the valtrex and mouth wash I have now. I no longer subscribe to the "tough it out" philosophy of health care. I am much more into the "an ounce of prevention" method. Way better. Way.