“A Question of Trust”

(Op/ed piece published in the Door County Advocate, a Gannett publication, on May 11, 2004)

(1,106 Words)

I love my dentist, and I’m not ashamed to say it. I don’t mean love, in the traditional sense of flowers and candy, but in the context of unerring and unfaltering trust, in his ability to give me pain-free, knowledgeable, and permanent repairs to my teeth. There is no substitute for having faith in a professional you depend on for personal care and, although Dr. Slavik may be embarrassed to hear me say it, I believe in giving kudos when the situation warrants it. During the past twenty-odd years he’s tended to my dental woes, I never received lectures from him about slacking off on my dental care routines (like some others I won’t mention). I never received rough treatment in the chair, during a procedure (as I did from others I won’t mention), he’s been honest with me about options and puts me at ease, while I’m lying in that all-too-familiar helpless, supine position. Most importantly, however, he gives me gas—you know, Nirvana under nitrous. Like I said, I love my dentist.

Don’t get me wrong…I don’t enjoy the prospect of an impending root canal or even a routine cleaning, but the confidence I gained from several years of painless visits, in the past, now gives me the resolve to grab that phone and make that appointment, without hearing my voice waver in the wind, and then, to actually sit in the waiting room, without feeling like I’m going to upchuck from nervousness.

Well, I might feel a butterfly or two… After all, the nightmarish dental experiences from my early adulthood have led me to see the error of my ways, with regard to flossing, so I seldom need to face major procedures, anymore, and so, I sometimes forget the confidence I’ve built up, over the years. There still remains that silly, childish fear of hearing high-pitched, whiny drills and smelling burnt smells from inside my mouth that make me wonder if I’ll have a tooth left, in the end. That’s when the gas kicks in and, when it does, I couldn’t care less if someone was drilling a hole through the center of my brain. There is no substitute for trust—in knowing that you’re numb but couldn’t care less, if you were or not. I love my nitrous oxide.

It makes me wonder how I ever survived those first hellish dental appointments, as a child. I don’t want to date myself, but some of you may remember that schools used to require a visit from the dentist, as part of the whole grade school experience. Now, news like this hit me hard, especially after countless visits to taverns with Grandpa for Hershey bars, and a mother who took every opportunity to shield me from any harm. You can only imagine how many cavities I might have had. It wasn’t pretty… I don’t know how they defined Novocain, in those days but, I do remember, it did very little to numb the pain of that drill as it whined and screamed its way into the bowels of my teeth. I still shudder at the thought and so, I’m sure, does a certain dentist from Two Rivers who received the wrath of my pain and the bite marks, to prove it.

These painful, terrifying experiences did little to encourage me to ever step foot inside another dental office. What a mistake. Several years passed and soon, the cumulative effect of ignoring all those routine check-ups piled up on me. Two teeth had begun throbbing for my attention, before I found Dr. Slavik. Imagine my trepidation and surprise during that first visit, when I discovered there was such a thing as nitrous oxide, or laughing gas. I almost cried, with relief. I still remember staring at the black dots on the acoustic ceiling and hearing voices undulating around me, in waves, while “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” played on the radio. What a trip! I discovered that, although root canals and extractions are never a pleasure, I could actually live through them and survive, unscathed!

So, I now come to the point of my little story. Just recently, I visited with Dr. Slavik, again. For the past several months, I knew I had two cavities, and I resolved to get them fixed—honest. It’s just that one of them required a crown, and my insurance only covered half the bill. This still left a balance that isn’t easy for me to come up with, so I procrastinated. Another mistake. The tooth in question eventually throbbed for my attention, again, and so, I made the pilgrimage to Jeff’s office to say, “hey.”

I didn’t give those butterflies a chance to even think about fluttering, this time. There is no substitute for experience. Armed with a new confidence, inspired by talking to interviewees, I lay back in the chair and told his assistant I wanted the gas. She obliged. A few minutes later, Jeff walked in and gave me the Novocain “pick.” Well, I won’t lie to you—the first one stung. Sorry, Jeff. After that, though, the cold fumes started coursing through my system, and the world swam in delightfully hazy spots, before my eyes. I looked over at the aquarium poster on the wall and imagined myself deep underwater as voices again ebbed and flowed around me, drills whined, and smoke poured from my mouth.

“What causes that burnt smell?” I asked him.

“Oh, that’s probably just old enamel being stripped away,” he replied.

“What inspired you to become a dentist?” I continued.

“That’s a good question.” He laughed. I felt empowered. “I guess you could say I’ve always wanted to do things with my hands, and I wanted to help people.”

Right about then, he plastered a gummy mold around my tooth, which effectively plugged up my curiosity. Panic! I wanted to open my mouth but dared not. Just go with it, I told myself. Breathe, get through it, I pleaded. What seemed like seconds later, I was free. The procedure continued, while “Yellow Submarine” chorused somewhere in the distance. At last, he fitted the temporary crown and informed me I was finished. As I struggled to regain my bearings, the world returned, in all its harsh reality. I remember telling him this was the most comfortable experience I’ve ever had, and joked that he must hear a lot of amusing stories, while people are under this gas. He looked at me, like the cat that had swallowed the proverbial canary, and just smiled.

Yes, there is no price too great to pay for trust—at least, until I get my next bill.