Those moments

I directed my patient to a seat, attempted to create small talk in spanish, and pulled on my surgical gloves. It was sunday, a week from the day I had first wandered into the realm of dentistry; now, we were holding another clinic, and I was again designated to the dental section. My patient was a middleaged woman, slightly overweight, and fidgety. She took a seat, and I proceeded to examine the interior of her mouth, noting a variety of teeth in various stages of dilapidation. Upon asking her which teeth were hurting her, she indicated 3 separate teeth, 2 on the top, and 1 on the bottom. I took the cap off my syringe, put a slight pressure on the plunger, and watched as the lidocaine spurted out in a thin stream. Since I don't have the expertise to do a "block" anesthesia yet, I simply injected the lidocaine into the gum around the tooth, once on the inside, once on the outside. As the lidocaine slowly flowed through the tiny flexible needle, I noted with pleasure that the gum-line was turning white around the perimeter of the tooth. This means the patient is anesthetized, and is unlikely to feel pain at the point of operation. So far, I told myself, things were going well. I hoped this procedure would continue to run so smoothly.

I picked out an extractor, and began attempting to loosen the tooth. After 5 minutes of fruitless labor, I decided to try the forceps. I pushed back the wall of the cheek with a tongue depressor, and got a hold on the tooth. My grip was too strong. The rotten tooth crumbled completely, leaving the roots secure in the strong embrace of the gumline. This complicated my job considerably, and my early optimism sank as slowly and surely as the ebbing tide, until I finally hit bottom, on the mud flats. I thankfully was not on my own, and had at my right hand an experienced dentist, who took over and completed my job with expedition. As I watched him pick out root after root, I felt a little foolish. I had a lot to learn. I guess it was just one of those moments.

Later on that morning, I had a boy enter the thin partition which we called the dental quarter. He had one rotten tooth, no doubt it had given him sufficient recompense and reprimand for the excess of sweets which undoubtedly caused the problem. I followed our procedure for children, first swabbing the area with a topical antibiotic, then numbing the site with a cartridge of lidocaine. As I reached for the extractor, I was entirely unsure of the outcome of my efforts. Secure in the knowledge of my ignorance, I proceeded as best I could, loosening the tooth with painstaking care, doing my utmost not to slip and gouge the tongue or cheek wall with the sharp tip of the extractor. Thankfully, my patient was well anesthetized, and I could work without the usual encumbrance of a wincing patient.

Once satisfied that I had loosened the tooth, I again grasped the forceps, took a grip, and began to rock, slowly. Back and forth, slowly increasing the tempo as I felt the roots slowly loosening their grasp on the gum. Finally, triumphantly, I held the bloodstained tooth aloft, for a moment oblivious to my patient, staring up at me with mouth agape. I eventually returned my attention to my patient, but the tide was coming back in, a tide of euphoria. I still have a lot to learn. I guess it was just one of those moments.