Last week I shared a little bit of my life’s scary experiences about my trips to dentists. I have, as a result built up a wary attitude towards these guys. But, to give into necessity I did go on and keep my appointment last week. Not sure it was a good idea but nevertheless—I went.

I ran the gauntlet of screeners and finally made it up to the 3 ^rd floor offices and clinics where I was ushered into the assigned operatory. My dental technician was a competent young man who was black. I was extra nice to him—did not want to rock the boat any during these turbulent days of race awareness. He was followed into my operatory by a real nicelooking dentist. I was nice to her too, since I thought she was the specialist sent to do my root canal. She was not. She was a graduated dentist OK, but the real guy sent word he had to go to the restroom. I was a little surprised at how we discussed the bowel habits of my real doctor who was, as I was soon to learn, a vaunted highly regarded specialist.

The special dentist finally arrived. He, too, was black, and I was simply fine with that. He was a nice professional looking doctor and we soon got under way. He and the other two lowered my chair so low I was about to slide out on my back, but he encouraged me to hang on. “Is this a right handed chair?” he asked. Well yes, the technician replied. “Well, I’m lefthanded.” I was wondering how all this information was going to impact my impending surgery. The girl doctor pipes up and says, “I’m left-handed too.” The technician pipes up and says, “well I’m not.” The doctor (the main one) asks me (I am still hanging on by a thread nearly on my head) if I was left-handed.

I replied that I was not but my wife was, and my concerns about my sloped positioning grew. I thought, thinking I would introduce a degree of levity to the whole situation, I could share that being married to a south paw had done nothing to raise my confidence in lefties. Not even a chuckle. By this time, the doctor had continued to give his opinion about the chairs design and how it did not allow him to easily access the area to be repaired. The other left hander joined in with her complaints. They each interrogated themselves about “southpaws” and how many in their families were lefties and stuff like that. I was filled with mixed emotions only about my own poor postural position.

By now he and she had numbed me up and plopped a thing in my mouth that held my mouth open. A suction tube made angry noises as it attempted to pump excess blood and saliva out of my oral orifice. I had come in at about 8:30 and time had passed. I stole a glance at the clock but wondered about the a.m. and p.m. of the matter. I figured that I had been suspended for hours. “Ow utch onger (how much longer),” I asked. “Not too long,” my left-handed wonder boy replied. “Just relax.” “Relax?” I wondered how I could do that. I was still upside down and the doctor had repeatedly told his left handed mentor that he had to quit soon and probably would not be able to finish.

By finishing I learned he meant my other dental work and that he had to eat lunch soon. But he finally finished up the root canal and said, “you will have to come back.” He said that if “this” hurts any, just take two Tylenol. In an instant my left-handed specialist vanished. My mouth was cleared out and quicker than you could say shazam he had gone. My remaining left hander (the cute one) finished explaining that I had to go back to the office and get an appointment. I did. They said two weeks—but said I would get a letter about exactly when.

I went out and found my wife and we headed back to Allen. If I live through all this, I will let you know. But like the rich young ruler in the Bible, I was saddened as I went away. Anyway, be sure and go to church Sunday. That usually cheers me up.