The tooth and nothing but the tooth: The twin torments of a dentist visit and moving into my new digs.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s going to the dentist.
If there’s two things, it’s moving.
So why did I wind up doing both in a few days? Just call me lucky!
The fun started when I went to the dental office for an appointment. Was it, I hoped, for a cleaning? Would it be swift and painless and I would be on my way?
Nope.
Turns out, I was due for the last of a round of fillings, the inevitable result of a youthful devotion to candy and pop, as well as less-than-dedicated dental care. The dental assistant said I would get four fillings, and it was going to take two hours.
So, you know the drill: Needles inserted in my mouth. Sharp probes testing teeth for numbness. The dentist and his assistant kept chatting while I tried not to squirm under their skilled hands (probably somewhat similar to the public domain scenario above, as posted on wikimedia commons).
See, I have a tortured history with dentists. In 1972, I went in for an extraction, and the dentist, an elderly man whose name was, I swear to God, Dr. Force, strained to remove the tooth. He said my teeth were like my dad’s and grandpa’s — seemingly set in concrete.
He leaned against my slender 13-year-old frame with his 300-pound bulk, pressing down for leverage. I heard a loud “thwock!” resonate through my skull. The pain was incredible, and the image of his triumphantly holding a bloody tooth aloft added to the experience.
Dr. Force — seriously, that was his name — packed my mouth with cotton and sent me home. My parents were worried about me, so I spent a restless night on the living room couch with Mom nearby.
In the morning, she noticed I was pale, weak and more listless than usual. She sent for Dad, who took one look at me and decided to return to the scene of the crime. Once there, Dr. Force opened my mouth as I drifted in and out of consciousness.
He took one look and backed away.
“Get the medic!” he called, his former career in the Army flashing before his eyes.
I was taken downstairs to the medical clinic, where my blood pressure was found to be almost nil. It turned out the dentist had done an insufficient job of packing the area where he yanked out the tooth, and my tongue had removed clots during the night.
I had been bleeding down my throat for several hours. The doctor ordered me taken to the hospital, and Dad picked me up, carried me to our car and rushed me to the hospital.
Six attempts to place an IV in me failed, but the seventh, done in the top of my right hand, succeeded. After several hours of intravenous care, I was revived and able to return home the next day.
Dr. Force, sad to say, had a stroke and retired. I am unsure if my near-death experience was a factor in that, and I certainly hope not.
I recovered and was soon back to playing sports and working on the farm. Doctors worried that I was prone to bleeding, and that I needed to stick to a distinct diet for a month. It involved well-done scrambled eggs, which wasn’t bad, and liver and onions, which was almost as horrible as the tooth extraction.
Man, it tasted terrible. None of my siblings wanted anything to do with that foul-tasting dish, but Mom and Dad both liked it, and sat with me, encouraging me to force it down.
A few years later, I damaged a front tooth after heading a ball playing soccer and landing mouth-agape atop another kid’s head. That led to a root canal, which was a new experience in pain. Just recalling it hurts.
Since those twin tortures, I have been wary of dentists. I really shouldn’t be, because I have since received exemplary care. I had a couple teeth pulled by an oral surgeon in Rapid City and it was almost completely painless. He was remarkable in his efficiency and care.
The fillings last week went well, too. The dentist, a friendly, caring young man, told me to be careful, however. He warned me of potentially “excruciating” pain, and referred me to not just one, but two specialists for follow-up treatment.
Happily, there has been absolutely no pain, a testament to his skill. I hope that regular cleanings and a rigorous adherence to dental care will keep me chewing happily for years to come.
One thing that surprises me is that not a single dentist or dental worker I have contacted in the last four decades was familiar with the famous dental scene in the movie “Marathon Man.” A former Nazi dentist played by the legendary Laurence Olivier tortured a young man portrayed by the now-equally legendary Dustin Hoffman. It’s a graphic, powerful scene, as the Nazi probes — literally — to determine if the missing fortune in diamonds he took from concentration camp victims is secure.
“Is it safe?” he keeps asking the clueless man struggling and crying out in pain. “Is it safe?”
It’s horrific, and enough to put someone off dentistry for life. But when I relay this story to dental workers, they all express ignorance. Maybe that’s just as well for all concerned.
We spent the next four days moving, emptying out an apartment to move to a beautiful new one in a complex with a pool, hot tub, deck and two large community rooms for social events. It’s a great place, and we are thrilled with it and the friendly neighbors we have met.
But actually moving all our stuff? Even with the assistance of a moving company and three strong young men, and the help of a friend with an incredible work ethic, it was exhausting.
I think I’d rather go to the dentist.
Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence, whose teeth feel fine right now, has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states and contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Republish with permission.
