A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the third installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
Mort, Kitty, and I moved again in 1986, this time up to Inwood (“upstate Manhattan,” as Ben called it). Already planning our marriage, Ben and I decided to expedite the cohabitation, and so we established our household in the apartment that he had been renting on his own since he moved to New York two years before. We shared the apartment with the two cats and Brodie, Ben's docile German Shepherd, who had seen her prime and was aging gracefully.
There, and in subsequent apartments, Mort would continue to pee pretty much wherever he wanted. And no attempt at disciplining him would take hold. A few years down the line, after Ben and I had seen the Clint Eastwood movie for which he would get the Best Director Oscar, Ben made a comment.
“You know,” he said. “If they ever write a movie about Mort, it'll be called Forgiven.”
At the time of the comment, we were living in L.A., and our apartment in the Beverly Hills adjacent area became Mort's ticket to freedom. We let him roam at that point because we were on the first floor, because the building's front door was always open, and because I knew there was no way to stop him.
Even with his access to the outside, though, Mort would still play his games with other apartment-dwellers. If they were on the first floor, he'd enter their apartments through their windows, and then he'd do his stray-cat routine, listing and looking hungry. The young couple who lived across the hall from us were responsive to my requests. “Don't feed him,” I said. “He's just pretending, and he's plenty fed.”
(I could imagine the act he'd been playing for them. I had fallen for it myself. I remembered one of the early weeks of Mort's and my life together. He'd been limping. I made a mental note of the limp and decided that if he were still limping two days later, I'd take him to the vet. Two days later, he was still limping, but he had switched legs. He was a pro.)
In addition to working his ways with our across-the-hall L.A. neighbors, Mort also charmed Paulo, the elderly gentleman and professional violinist who lived upstairs. When we moved into the building and met Paulo, he had a dog. But, shortly after the ’92 riots, he had to give up his dog (they both had health issues), and so he was particularly responsive to Mort. They had meals together, Paulo and Mort. I recognized that this was good for Paulo, and so I didn't invade on the friendship. But I always would make sure that Mort “came home for bed,” and Paulo was agreeable to this rule.
One night, when I went upstairs to retrieve Mort, he was asleep and smiling in Paulo's violin case. I also got a whiff of room deodorizer. I didn't let it become my problem. Paulo could buy a kitty litter box if he wanted to, I reasoned. It was his decision.
+++
While we were living in that building, Mort spent a good part of the day outside. And he'd always seem to hear me come home from work. I don't know if he recognized the sound or smell of the car or the radio station I frequented, but whenever I parked on the street, Mort would emerge from wherever he had been, run toward the driver's side door, and greet me home from the day. It was charming.
And it was actually kind of more charming that night when Paulo returned from the grocery store just as Mort and I were crossing the street together. Mort saw his friend and stopped, and Paulo, pulling grocery bags out of his trunk, said, “Tonight, Mort, we're having steaks!”
Paulo climbed the stairs with Mort fast behind him. I went into Ben's and my apartment.
“Ben,” I said, “Mort's just gone upstairs to have steaks with Paulo. We're having cereal for dinner. What's wrong with this picture?”
+++
Mort, Kitty, Ben and I didn't leave Paulo because of the steaks. We left for a bigger apartment. That was 1993.
Our new place was a two-bedroom in the same Beverly Hills adjacent ‘hood. About seven blocks north, it was closer to the commercial drag of 3rd Street. It also was a second-floor unit.
Although our front door opened directly to the staircase that led to the great outdoors, Mort no longer demanded egress. He was in his early teens at that point, and I guess he was settling down. The only time I remember him going outside was when I would go down to the courtyard to sit in a lawn chair and read in the sun. He’d come along, and most often he would rest in the shade under my chair. Otherwise, indoors was fine with him.
But indoors was trickier for Ben and me, and in 1995, Mort, Kitty and I left Ben.
We moved to a second-floor apartment in Los Feliz – the apartment I still occupy today. And although Mort had had plenty of experience moving (this was our 8th apartment together), I guess he entered into these digs with a bit of anxiety. One morning, as I was rushing to get to my downtown job, I did a cat-count, as per my OCD rituals. Kitty was present, but Mort was nowhere for roll call.
Oh dear.
I checked the window screens, which seemed to be intact. But I also knew that Mort had a way of working screens that was near-magical. Realizing that his wanderlust may have returned, I made a beeline outdoors and checked the perimeter of the building. There was no sign of him, so I came back indoors.
Cats, of course, have an amazing capacity to find hiding places, and so I checked around, peering in every corner of every closet, in every corner of the apartment. Mort was nowhere to be seen.
Now on a schedule that would make me late for work, I had one final strategy. I would pull out the can opener and open a can of cat food. Surely the noise would bring him forth from whatever lair he had discovered in our new place.
As I began to open the drawer in which I kept the can opener, it seemed to resist in a strange way. It was heavier than usual. And that’s when I saw the tabby grey fur. Mort had gone into the cupboard below the drawer and then had accessed the drawer via its back end. A squeeze much tighter than imaginable to the human eye, but it was his mission, and he accomplished it.
For the next several days, and until he adjusted to our new home, I would entertain the same ritual before leaving for work. Finding Kitty on the couch or a chair, I’d pet her and say goodbye. Then, I’d go to the kitchen, open the drawer, and wish Mort a good day.
to be continued on March 15th.
Showing posts with label Beverly Hills adjacent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beverly Hills adjacent. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Monday, August 15, 2011
Monday Reruns: The Perfectionist Dentist from Hell
(original post date: August 11, 2010)
I know a lot of people have dentist horror stories, and I also believe– from listening to those stories – that the horror stems not from what actually happened at the dentist’s office, but rather from what the individual’s own fear brought to the procedures. Some people simply can’t descend into that slick, contoured chair without conjuring up images from Marathon Man.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
I know a lot of people have dentist horror stories, and I also believe– from listening to those stories – that the horror stems not from what actually happened at the dentist’s office, but rather from what the individual’s own fear brought to the procedures. Some people simply can’t descend into that slick, contoured chair without conjuring up images from Marathon Man.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Perfectionist Dentist from Hell
I know a lot of people have dentist horror stories, and I also believe– from listening to those stories – that the horror stems not from what actually happened at the dentist’s office, but rather from what the individual’s own fear brought to the procedures. Some people simply can’t descend into that slick, contoured chair without conjuring up images from Marathon Man.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
I never had those fears.
At least, not until I was in my early 30’s.
As a child, I’d had what were probably standard experiences for anyone born in the late 50’s. My earliest visits to the dentist – and specifically, those appointments that called for having a cavity filled – included no pain-numbing injections. My dentist – an old-fashioned gent who stood while he drilled and who played the sax in a combo band when he wasn’t wearing his white coat – simply took the process slowly. He pulled back when it was clear that the nerve was alarmed. After a moment, he would proceed. Sure, it hurt. But only in spurts. And only a little.
By my teen years, our family had switched to another dentist. This man, who was younger than the first, recommended the use of Novocain, and since I wasn’t afraid of an injection (I mean, you don’t have to look at the needle), I said, “Bring it on.”
After all those years of feeling the process of having a cavity filled, the numbing afforded by Novocain was an absolute treat. Beyond that, this younger dentist did what dentists have done from that point forward: he sat on a stool and put the patient in full recline mode.
For me, the opportunity to lie down in the middle of the day was a gift. The fact that I didn’t feel a thing made that gift an invitation to nap. I’m not saying I ever fell asleep in my dentist’s chair, but I was always phenomenally relaxed.
I will confess one exception to that statement, and my dentist got a kick out of it. My appointment, you see, was about a day ahead of one of my prep school finals, and I needed to study. So… I brought my notes with me, and as my dentist worked in my mouth, I held the notes above me in the air, and I read them.
He drilled.
I memorized.
The numbing in my mouth was completely gone a full 24 hours before I aced the exam.
Fast forward to my adulthood.
More dentists, here and there.
In New York, never a problem.
In Los Angeles, somehow trickier.
And as I was looking for one near my then-apartment in what is called “Beverly Hills adjacent,” a co-worker recommended her dentist.
We’ll call him Dr. Blatt.
During my premiere visit with Dr. Blatt, I was struck by the seeming passion he brought to his work. He appeared to be remarkably interested in every tooth in my mouth, and as he conveyed his observations to his assistant (and she took notes), his statements straddled a fence between dental speak and English. I got the impression that he was a bit anal.
As I walked home from the appointment (yes, I walked home – in L.A. – that’s how convenient this dentist was!), I thought, Hey, a perfectionist working on my teeth? I could do worse!
A week or so later, I went in for the first of several follow-up appointments. On this particular morning, Dr. Blatt would be working on the upper left quadrant. Apparently, there was a cavity up there, and it needed to be filled.
Until the day of this appointment, I had never experienced a “dental dam,” and for those who don’t know what I’m referring to, I’ll try to paint the picture as quickly as possible. A dental dam is a very thin, round rubber thing that the dentist places in your mouth. In the middle of it, there is a hole that is flush with your throat and allows you to breathe. The remaining rubber is there to prevent uninteresting parts of your mouth from getting in the way of the procedure at hand.
As for the procedure at hand, that is accomplished by forcing the designated work area through the dental dam. I.e., if the dentist is working on a molar near the back of your upper left quadrant, s/he pushes the dam until that tooth – and, I’m guessing, a few neighboring teeth – make their appearance on the working side of the rubber barrier.
So, class, are you with me?
It was new to me, too, but it all went fine. I was reclined, I was relaxed, and since Dr. Blatt was speaking only dental speak with his assistant, I had nothing to listen to but the sound of my body not having to be at work.
I was so relaxed, in fact, that at one point, Dr. Blatt returned to using English words with which I was familiar: “Katie?” he said, soothingly, “ Are you still alive? Because if you’re dead, there’s really no reason to continue.”
Maybe that’s dental humor. Anyway, it didn’t offend me. (I took it as a compliment, actually.) I’m sure I smiled with my eyes.
A week or two later, I was back for more. Another quadrant to be dealt with. This time, it was the lower left.
I was relaxed, numbed and ready to go when Dr. Blatt pushed the dam over the designated work area. And that’s when my jaw moved a bit.
(You see, I have kind of a popping jaw. Not a big issue. Not one for which I have ever sought counseling, but, yes, it pops.)
Dr. Blatt began with his procedure, speaking dental speak to his assistant, and for the first 45 minutes or so, I was okay. There was no pain in the area that they were working on, but slowly… slowly… the jolt to my jaw was starting to mess with my sense of alright. I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. I was beginning to feel downright nauseous.
I should mention now that one of the little quirks of Dr. Blatt is that, before any procedure, he provides his patient with a little hand mirror in case you want to watch his work!
(In retrospect, I could slap myself for not seeing the red flag in that! I mean, who the hell wants to watch that shit going on? Are you kidding?)
Anyway, I’m lying there, not nearly as relaxed as I had been during the prior appointment. The pain from the jaw pop is starting to get to me in a big way. And, I’ve got this damn dam in my mouth. I’m prone. This is so not a good time to be sick.
I’m seriously concerned, and the gravity of that feeling compels me to communicate as best I can.
I begin to make moaning sounds.
Dr. Blatt responds to those sounds by switching from dental speak to regular English. In a register louder than mine, he begins to tell his assistant about the luncheon he attended the previous week.
I’m lying there in pre-vomit pain and the bastard is ignoring me!
I tap my fingernails on the “patient mirror” that I’ve been holding in my hand. Those taps provide a percussive accompaniment to my continued moans.
Dr. Blatt speaks even more loudly about the luncheon.
I begin to kick my feet up and down, still moaning, still tapping the mirror.
FINALLY, Dr. Blatt acknowledges me, and in a tone that is belittling, he says, “I think Katie wants to tell us something!”
I sit up, and with all the Marcel Marceau in my soul, I mime, “Get this fucking goddamn dam out of my goddamn fucking mouth!” (Pardon my French, Marcel.)
Dr. Blatt removes the dam.
I take a deep breath, and I tell him, “I’m sorry, I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
He turns his head dramatically.
“And now I feel sick,” he says, “because now I am going to have to finish the procedure without the dam.”
Poor Dr. Blatt.
Poor inhumane, sociopathic, perfectionist, let-him-be-road-kill Dr. Blatt.
A week or so later, I was due to go back to him, and I guess I hadn’t fully processed the trauma he caused me because my intention was to keep the appointment. But, when I woke up on the morning when I was due in his office at 9:00, the first thing I did was cry.
I cancelled, needless to say, and I never saw that bastard again.
I’ve had the same dentist now for more than 12 years. He’s wonderful, as is his staff.
I’ve regained my ability to enjoy the opportunity that a dental appointment provides.
…Reclining.
…During the day.
The work at hand? …Somebody else’s problem.
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