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@GillyJ
Thanks for the observation about the transition to kinder, gentler dentistry.
I lived my teenage years in the 1970s and, due to bad genes when it comes to teeth, I spent a lot of hours in Dr. McKay's dental chair. Indeed, it was an uncomfortable, upright chair with hard-plastic armrests. Dr. McKay was an older man and friend of my parents, so, as their friend, he was our family’s dentist.
Dr. McKay was a grumpy, gruff old man who never smiled or spoke kindly. He worked alone without any assistants or other office workers so as he drilled, the air filled with dust from his drilling. It smelled like burning flesh and I gagged on the fragments and debris that flew around in my mouth. Every 5-10 minutes, Dr. McKay would stop the drilling, spray water in my mouth, and grunt, “Turn your head and spit.”
And I would turn my head and make a valiant attempt to spit the rubble in my mouth into a white, porcelain bowl that was swirling with water, to me, it looked like a toilet. With a numb mouth and tongue, I could maybe spew out half of the chunks and grit. Then I would lean back in the chair with spittle dripping down my chin.
I hated going to Dr. McKay and for all these years, more five decades, I thought it was just mean old Dr. McKay and his cold, sterile office, but, as you say @GillyJ, it was more likely the way most dentists practiced dentistry at that time, except they were not necessarily grumpy, old men.
In 1980, I was 22 years old and married, and my wife and I had our own dental insurance. I knew I needed to have some cavities taken care of and asked a co-worker for a recommendation for a dentist.
Later that month, I had an entirely new, life-changing dental experience.
I hated going to the dentist as a kid. Everyone in my family went to a dentist who was a friend of my parents and he was grumpy and mean. Just the thought of the shots and the drilling terrified me.
Dr. McKay didn’t use an assistant so as he drilled, all the ground-up enamel and previous fillings flew around inside my mouth. Since he used no water, the dust and smell of burning flesh was overwhelming. When I was sufficiently gagging, he would stop drilling so he could spray some water in my mouth, and then he would grunt, “Turn your head and spit.”
So, with a numb mouth and a thick tongue, I would try to swish and then spit the water and the debris into the white, porcelain bowl next to my head that was up too high for a child. With its swirling water, it reminded me of a toilet. My guess is that with my swishing and spitting and my clumsy tongue, I could only remove maybe 50% of the gunk from my mouth. And for the next 24 hours, I would be removing leftover bits and pieces from his handiwork.
In 1980, when I was 22 years old and married with my own dental insurance and went to a dentist suggested by a friend.
I was amazed at the difference in dentistry compared to my teenage years in the 1970s.
Instead of a hard, uncomfortable upright dental chair, I was laid back on a soft, comfortable, horizontal couch. A cute, young girl said she was a dental assistant and she would be working with the dentist to make sure I was comfortable.
She asked if I wanted laughing gas. I asked what laughing gas was and she explained that it would make me a little loopy to take the edge off of the drilling.
Are you kidding me? You can make me high so I don’t even care about the shots and the drilling and the fingers in my mouth? Bring it on, baby!!
She also offered me headphones and my choice of music so I wouldn’t even hear the drilling.
Again, are you kidding me? You mean, mentally I can be in a happy place in the other room while you take care of my dental work in this room. Duh! Sign me up!!
So, she hooked me up to the nitrous oxide and the music and a few minutes later I floated up, out, and away from the building and, apparently, while I was gone, the dentist drilled and filled and polished my teeth.
And while the dentist did his thing, the pretty young lady stayed and sprayed water on the teeth and suctioned everything off during the drilling so there was no dust in the air and there was no smell of burning flesh.
Perhaps an hour later, although it could have been days since I had no concept of time while I was enjoying the nitrous oxide, I found myself looking up into the eyes of the cute little assistant
“How are you feeling?”
“Great! When is the dentist going to start?”
“Oh, silly. He’s already done. I just have you breathing oxygen to clear out the laughing gas.”
“Wow! Amazing! I didn’t feel or notice a thing. Could you give me an enema?”
“Of course, silly. Just roll onto your side for me. That’s good. Now, lower your pants and underwear so I can have easy access to, oh, my, your very cute bottom. Alright now, I’m going to put my lubricated finger into your bottom hole and work it around so it’s easier to insert the nozzle. You don’t might me doing this, do you?”
Wait. Sorry. Scratch the enema part. That was only in my dreams or maybe it was part of the nitrous experience.
In 1980. was surprised, amazed, astonished, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, stunned, and gob smacked that the entire dental experience was pleasant and pain-free compared to the countless number of terrifying experiences in the dental chair during my childhood in the 1970s. Wow! What a change and what an improvement!
(Yeah, I know that surprised, amazed, astonished, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, stunned, and gob smacked are pretty much the same thing but I wanted to really emphasize how great I felt).
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