The Willow Glen Resident One dentist who fixed more than a smile Deborah Taylor-Hollis When I was 20, out on my own--first apartment, first big job--I also had my first chance to hire a professional. I needed a dentist. My parents had picked my first dentist, their family friend and a guy who may have been great with their teeth, but who could make a child anxious to bite the hand that examined him. The man gave me such trepidation that not only would I refuse to go see him, I even refused to do anything he told me to--which meant that by the time I was 20, I was looking at periodontal hell--the possible loss of all my teeth to gum disease. I had evaded the beast that gave me childhood nightmares, only to fall prey to my own genetically defective gums. I hated any dentist, and would put off going each time until my gums were bleeding and things were loose. I was in tears even before I pulled into the office parking lot, and in angry tears when I left. I managed to find every fugitive Nazi Dr. Mengele ever trained. Apparently, several relocated here and took up dentistry. My agony was exquisite. My best friend Teri kept telling me about this new guy she had found--a real soft touch who was so nice and patient--and I couldn't believe her. Her mouth wasn't as bad as mine. Her fears weren't as great as mine. She didn't sweat from her hands, arms, waist and even behind her kneecaps every time she stepped into a dentist's office. I did. I was the walking wounded of dentistry. Then, I followed her advice and went to see Ron. The first time I walked in, dripping from every inch of skin, I advised him how sensitive my mouth was--so bad the last dentist was sporting teeth marks on two fingers where I had done an impersonation of Jaws. Ron was patient. Ron was funny. Ron used to be a high school teacher before he found his calling, and he knew how to talk down a kid with a loaded overbite. Ron walked me through that check-up and through my life. Ron took out all four of my wisdom teeth in one day and I didn't even cry. He made sure I had lots of backup at home afterward. Ron called three times that day just to check up on me. Ron took care of me the way only your parents would. XHe gave me his home phone number. When I broke a tooth on Chinese food (don't ask how) Ron had me come in the next day--Sunday--and fixed it. When my father needed emergency work he took him in on a Saturday, no extra charge. For all the times I walked in there sure it was root canal time, Ron jollied me out of it, took care of the "boo-boos" and made my smile better, which, in turn, made my life better. And when my son needed his first dental exam, where else would I take him? We even videotaped the event, and a good time was had by all. Last week we had our regular check-up appointments, but when we got to the office, our buddy wasn't working--he had a temporary dentist presiding over his practice. I knew right away that something was wrong. In 20 years, no one but Ron has ever been in my mouth without a specialist referral and a half-hour interview. My buddy wouldn't do something like that to me without a really terrible reason. And my fear was right. My buddy probably won't be coming back to his little practice, with the walls that were papered by him and his wife so many years ago, before she graduated law school and he was still struggling. They have some time left together for their family, but not nearly enough, because bad things happen to good people and there are some things you can't cure with patience and laughing gas. Ron is my dentist. I don't know where he lives, and I am not part of his private life. But he is part of mine. He is the first professional man whose hands I ever put my life into, and he never let me down. He is my passing from a kid who didn't care about flossing to someone who keeps appointments and has "a relationship" with their doctor. Before I got insurance, I used to kid him about how much of his car I "owned," and just what kind of fun he and his wife probably had on weekends with the extra tank of laughing gas. He is the first guy who had headphones and let you pick out what music you'd hear while he drilled away and sealed those cavities. Even though I don't sweat behind the kneecaps anymore, I remember what it was like, and he's the best. You might have someone in your life who isn't exactly a "friend," but who, when you think about it, is very important to you. This is a good season to tell them just how much they mean to you. Don't wait until time is short. [ Back to Contents Page | Willow Glen Resident Home Page | Archives ] This article appeared in the Willow Glen Resident, December 9, 1998. ©1998 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.