I was reclined in the narrow examination chair at the dentist this morning having my biannual prophy. Teeth cleaning for those of you who didn't work in the dental field, as I briefly did in the 1980's. I was a bit miffed that they were running behind schedule at eight am - not a good sign for them for the ensuing hours. For me? Just a minor inconvenience. I had grabbed a magazine from home and was reading all about fig farming in California. Waiting time is not wasted time!
When the time came for the polishing, I had a memory of my childhood dentist, Dr. Seminara. His office was walking distance away on Lester Dr., but we always drove there. His practice was in his house which allowed us to trick or treat there on Halloween. You would think he'd have handed out mini-toothbrushes or sugar-free gum. Nope! He always bestowed us with the sticky stuff - Charleston Chews, Turkish Taffy, Sugar Daddy's. My mother said it guaranteed him repeat business. What came to me over the whir of the handpiece (dental lingo is hard to shake) is that he always used Mynol Prophy Paste with a chocolate-mint flavor. It ruined that flavor combo for me forever. I can't stand chocolate chip mint ice cream, and always push my Olive Garden after dinner mints across the table to my dining companion.
That led me to thinking about how our pediatrician also officed in his house. Dr. Winikoff lived on the corner of Edgewood Dr. and Orangeburg Rd. We could not only walk to his house, but my cigarette smoking mother actually ran there once with me in her arms. I faintly remember a few occasions where he came to our house and examined me in my pajamas, while I was lying in bed. In retrospect I think that is creepy and invasive.
He had a solo practice in those days - before Dr. Boris joined him in a new office building down the road. If he were unavailable the doctor in the next town over was our go-to guy. Dr. Stern had an office a few doors down from our dog, Queenie's, veterinarian on Middletown Rd. in Pearl River. As circumstance would have it, I did have to go to this big colonial house when I was four or five years old.
My brother, Harry, and I were horsing around in the back room of our house. Some people called this the den, or family room, but we liked to reference geography and blueprints to explain this small room where the TV was, along with some bookshelves and a small closet that held my mother's fancy coats. It also had two couches of the Danish Design variety. This was way before IKEA built behemoth stores filled to the brim with DIY furniture and other items that make married couples quarrel. The uncomfortable couches we had in the back room were cushions placed atop a hard wooden frame with mitered edges. I was on my brother's back, and he bucked me off. I thought we were playing, and he thought he gave me fair warning that I was going to be sent flying. Either way the result is the same. I somehow managed to land right on the sharp edge of the couch with the back of my right ear enduring the impact. My ear was a bit a dangle, there was a good amount of blood, and I was ready to howl. But when your big brother tells you to just lay down and be quiet, that is what this little kid did.
This only lasted until my squeamish sister came into the room to witness the bloody aftermath of our roughhousing. There were screams of horror, and rushing in of parents, and I don't know exactly what happened to my brother at the moment, but I will guess not much. Tatala* never had many consequences. What happened to me is this. My parents called the doctor and the doctor said - no more little Janie landing on her head. No. What really happened is that my dad drove me to Pearl River to Dr. Stern's office. I remember the fish tank in the waiting room vividly. Then it was into the exam room where the fill-in physician and my dad chatted while I laid on the table scared, in pain and uncomforted.
I am going to say my dad was smoking a cigarette while Dr. Stern cleaned his pipe. The doc had a long-handled knife with a big blade and was turning the point into the bowl of the tobacco pipe while my dad puffed away on a Parliament or a True. I was laying on my good side eyeing the aquarium through the open door and most likely was whimpering. I wasn't paying much attention to the smoky, manly conversation, but I do remember my dad asking Dr. Stern if that was the knife he was going to use to cut off my ear. Now I was paying attention but who could hear me sniveling over their good old boy chuckling?
I received several stitches at the back of my ear. No outward evidence of this minor misfortune. When I started to wear corrective lenses a few years later, I needed to have the arms of my eyeglasses adjusted to sit lightly along this scar. For many years they were the only sewing of skin my body endured. That changed when I cut myself with a hot out of the autoclave instrument in Evergreen, where I worked as a dental assistant. A doctor sewed it up, but the dentist I worked for removed the stitches. Two C-Sections and the removal of a precancerous mole from my face provided a few more battle scars over the years. And just to bring the dentist back into this - I had oral stitches when my wisdom teeth were removed.
When COVID came around and I had to wear a mask with ear loops as to not inhale or exhale another human being's breath, that little ear scar became raised and irritated. I had it removed last year, sans anesthetic, and it seems flatter and more manageable now. My brother was recovering from his own bout with the perils of a worldwide pandemic, and I chose not to tell him that his antics of almost six decades ago still affected me today.
All this rambling in the course of a prophy that took less time than the half hour I sat in the waiting room. All these memories of a semi-bucolic childhood that included a dentist who pushed candy and a pediatrician who visited little girls in their bedrooms. I put my mask on right after the fluoride was applied. No tell-tale sign of past injury. No one smoking in the operatory. No jokes about removing body parts against my will. My teeth and my ear are doing well. Now if only my therapist hadn't cancelled this morning I'd be all set from my neck up!
* tatala - a term of endearment mostly used for boys - meaning Little Father or Little Man
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