My six-month dental checkup occurred this morning December 14, 2014 with Dr. Green in Austin. I no longer dread such appointments—is there any profession that has undergone such a transformation?
When I was a kid, we only visited the dentist following days of excruciating pain and all the home remedies had failed. Mom would try to alleviate the hurt by rubbing oil of cloves onto the aching gum area, or by molding softened paraffin wax over the throbbing tooth. Both were temporary solutions.
The closest dentist practiced in Dorchester, forty miles south of Ogema. Dad worked out of town all week, so of course he wasn’t able to drive us. The solution? Hitch a ride in the morning with the “Star Route mailman” who drove a daily route south, returning on his north route late afternoon each day.
I can’t remember how much he charged for a rider, but I suspect the federal post office was kept ignorant of how the driver padded his salary. One never knew just who or how many other passengers there might be crowded into his sedan. I have bad memories about the ride, and not just because I feared the dentist, but being uncomfortable with the driver, basically a stranger to me, if I happened to be the only passenger.
One time when my older brother Carl and I used the mail route mode of transportation to Dorchester, we completed our visit much sooner than the expected postman’s return. Carl decided we could give our return fare back to mom if we hitchhiked home. So, we hiked out to Highway 13 and Carl thumbed our way home. I had complete trust in him –he must have been all of sixteen.
And oh, the dental experience itself. I don’t think we had appointments (in the forties long distance calls were made only in an emergency or to report a death in the family), so we waited our turn in the crowded waiting room, and listened to the drilling and spitting of others. I don’t recall if the dentist had an assistant or if he was even remotely pleasant. He must have been overworked, and thinking back to the straight chair where patients sat upright, how his back must have hurt as he probed, drilled, and pulled teeth all day.
He didn’t even try to hide the needle delivering the Novocain, and the slow-moving drill can still give me nightmares. Periodically he’d allow me to spit bloody matter into the porcelain bowl, and finally, he’d smash silver filling into my mouth. I can still feel the crunch, crunch, crunch and spitting out silver filling residue after leaving the office.
So even though my brain tells me that today’s dentistry experience is totally different than some seventy years ago, I still nervously clench the armrest of the chair as I recline in Dr. Green’s chair and try to relax.
But… it’s nearly impossible-
