The Teeth are Fine, But the Gums Gotta Go
Memories of a Valley Boy
In my earliest dental memory, I am in the waiting room on a rocking horse, counting the cowboys and indians on the wild west wallpaper. Then, I jump in a playpen decked out like a corral and smash worn toys together, trying to forget where I am.
Maybe the kiddie dentist will say, "No Cavities!" this time.
But I always have a cavity, and that means the needle. It means the high-pitched whine of the drill, the smell of burning teeth, the numbness, and the helplessness. No matter how hard I brush, I always have cavities.
Later my parents discovered the kiddie dentist had the lucrative habit of drilling and filling healthy teeth.
***
In my teenage years, Dr. Dale Hyde is the best dentist ever. He is the only dentist Mom trusted. Dr. Hyde made her laugh and forget her anxiety. Hyde is a dental saint as far as Mom is concerned. Her belief and blind faith made it easier for me to lie in that chair.
Dr. Hyde is dark and short with hairy muscular forearms and antiseptic breath. His thick dexterous fingers have precisely manicured fingernails. In close, his bulging brown eyes flash up from his work as he jokes. His edgy sense of humor makes me grin as he probes, pokes, and scrapes
Lying back in the chair, pinned under the overhead lamp, I wait. The tray by my side has rows of shining chrome picks, packers, and mirrors. A plastic suction tube hangs from my slack mouth as saliva swirls down the spit sink babbling in my ear.
With furtive moves, Dr. Hyde turns away to prepare the Novocain. He offers some joking banter as his big fingers shake my cheek. A quick faint pain deep in the jaw fades immediately to swollen tongue numbness, and I relax. He keeps telling jokes, and I try to laugh.
Six months later, it is time for another checkup. The cleaning is done. The X-rays show a bit of foggy decay. Time to drill. I lay there, open-mouthed, waiting for the needle. As usual, Hyde turns his back to prepare the Novocain.
"Say ah now Dennis, that's right." he begins the distracting cheek shake.
Suddenly Hyde is in my face grinning, eye to eye. He winks and holds up the silver syringe. The needle is an immense, ballistic chrome barrel with a rocket-sized spike.
"How'd you like one in the eyeball?" he asks.
Before I could squirm, my cheek still jiggling, the needle disappears, and I am numb. Hyde giggles, and I laugh despite a numb mouthful of cotton and cavities.
Dale Hyde taught me to laugh at my fears - a lifelong gift. Thanks, Doc!