Dentists

While loading some of the 22 rooms of laundry just now into one of our motel's magnificent front loaders, I started wondering how, 100 years ago, they did the laundry at hotels. Did they have a sweatshop of Chinamen scrubbing linens on rocks near a local stream? And that led me to marveling at all of the incredible inventions that are available to make so much of our lives phenomenally easy. Just typing this blog, having a spellcheck performed and launching it out for my friends and family to instantly stay in touch with my ramblings is beyond belief!

And that led me into the thoughts about dentistry. I cannot imagine there are many people out of the six billion in the world (well, unlikely that many have even the access to dentistry which is another topic) that actually do not mind the experience? I think of my life as six month increments between my checkups. Then, there is a certain amount of anxiety once I get my reminder card as to whether I will get a clean check-up. And, any little discomfort eating a caramel, or having a sinus headache, or in my case, somehow getting tin foil in my old fillings (ouch) makes a nagging worry appear in my brain. I am incredibly pain tolerant. I had 22 hours of active Pitocin induced nightmare labor with my first child with no pain medication, and didn't once swear at his father, so I should be able to manage a little "pinch" as they say, of Novocaine.

But, in reality, it is the noises in my head while he grinding my enamel to sawdust, and the smell of it, that really gets my hands sweating. I think it is being out of control and lying prone while there are fingers and cotton shoved in my mouth. I must fear I will not be able to talk!!

The real blame falls on my parents. Going to see Dr. Backus, the sadist, as a child was beyond description. Waiting in the office waiting room, yawning and stretching to oxygenate while nearly hyperventilating started the visit. Dr. Backus did not use Novocaine. Why, I do not know. Too modern for him? Too expensive for my parent's budget? And, on top of the lack of analgesic, he had the nerve to yell at us if we squirmed too much! Maybe my memory is distorted, but I have verified this with my siblings and he was definitely a torture expert. Maybe I got yelled at because I tried to punch him in the closest part of his anatomy to my fist, which would be painful to him as he bent over me, but I do not think so. And, after all of his so-called education, he was willing to give us a paper spit cup with mercury in it if we behaved? Didn't he know we took it home, spilled it on the hardwood bedroom floor and tried to pick up the million little balls it blasted into. And then rubbed our eyes. With mercury covered hands. All I know is that I have been scarred. And not just by the mercury which I can perhaps use an excuse for any behaviour I am now embarrassed by. I just want modern medical science to catch up with my laundry equipment.