As we left off last Sunday, my braces were off and my mouth was a shambles. Food and plaque had dug down deep into my enamel. I had gone through elementary and junior high school cavity-free. That would not be the case with high school. Open wide! Here comes the novacaine. In goes the drill.
My esteemed orthodontist, Dr. Arthur Ash Not The Tennis Player, conveniently had ties to a dentist down the hall at 10 Fiske Place in Mount Vernon. I am guessing this was a lucrative trade-off whenever the renowned architect of bite retainers was done with his patients. Let Dr. Paul Cipes deal with all the holes caused by the inability of kids to brush their teeth while impersonating a Buick LeSabre. This might have been the kind of business deal hatched by the two devious doctors while sipping high balls at the Lake Isle Country Club.
My braceless mouth now had six cavities that needed immediate attention. As I got off the elevator and headed down the hall to Dr. Cipes' office, the whirring of a drill was unmistakable. I envisioned a big grin on his face and a set of new golf clubs in his car trunk.
Dr. Cipes was a nice man. He probably was younger than he looked, but nevertheless he was always dressed for his next golf match. I got the impression that he was simply dealing with my teeth to kill time before his next foursome. There were golf photos and paintings adorning all his walls. Was he going to use a regular drill in my mouth? Or would he be repairing my teeth with a couple of swings from his nine iron?
To this day, the nerves in my mouth take a lot of medication to get numb. If I'm having work done, I need to get there at least an hour early to make sure all the knock-out juice is working. So, back then, Dr. Cipes would inject me with novocaine and then leave me with a seven-month-old Golf Digest to read for the next hour. In between other patients/victims, he'd periodically stick his head in my room.
"Are you numb yet?"
No.
"Okay, I'll be back. Great article about Jack Nicklaus on page 35,"
Eventually, Dr. Cipes would get his turn on me and it always sounded more dreadful than it really was. I was completely spooked by the sound of the drill. Once Dr. Cipes realized that, he had a 75 watt light bulb of an idea.
He got a pair of headphones and let me listen to the music.
Sweet. Except it wasn't exactly the Doobie Brothers.
It was WQXR, the classical station in New York. Hardly calming for me, especially if it was the Overture to the War of 1812.
It took about six months of visits for Dr. Cipes to pour more cement into my mouth than was used to bury Jimmy Hoffa. I got a free ride for a while. Now that I could brush and floss to my heart's content, my trips to Dr. Cipes at the 10 Fiske Place Golf Course were relegated to two check-ups a year. He'd be done in ten minutes. Hardly even long enough to get a good conversation going about the Masters.
But, a year after college, I was jolted back into reality. Well, actually, it was more like a sharp pain in one of my two front teeth. And when it didn't go away for a couple of days, it was time to go back into the world of Sam Snead and dental probes.
"Did you bang this tooth?"
Er, no, but it's been sensitive to cold liquid for a while.
"You ever get hit in the mouth?"
Do you think I work for a union down at the docks?
The tooth was dying and Dr. Cipes wanted to know why.
"Ever fall and hit it on the floor?"
Come on, Dr. Cipes....no, wait....
You've read the story here before several times. The time I fainted in Sunday School, fell forward, and they had to retrieve my bite plate from behind the altar.
Bingo! We had a diagnosis. And apparently a dead tooth that required a root canal. I had no clue what that was.
"Well, I drill a hole, let some pressure and bacteria out of the tooth, and then I pull out the nerve."
He lost me at "well."
Headed to 10 Fiske Place on the fateful day, John Dillinger had more hope coming out of the Biograph Theater in Chicago. There would be drilling and pulling and maybe some more drilling and a lot more pulling. None of it sounded like the soft caress of a down pillow. I should have called ahead and had Dr. Cipes order extra novacaine. He couldn't possibly keep that much in his supply cabinet.
Root canals have become much easier for dentists do now. I've had two on the West Coast and they barely raised an eyebrow for me. But, back then, it was a big deal. Except for the pesky and painful tooth, a plastic covering is overlayed unto some metal contraption which, in turn, was then placed around my head. Did I have a bad tooth or was I suffering from whiplash? I looked like the earliest incarnation of Hannibal Lechter.
"You want the headphones?"
I couldn't answer him. A plastic wrapped cage around your skull will do that to you. I grunted. Amazingly, he took that as a yes.
Back then, dentists would use a tiny but red hot poker to clean out the tooth canal of any infection. So, on the tray in front of my chest (it's not like I could see it) was a bunsen burner that allowed Dr. Cipes to heat up the little rods. He also might have been using it for his lunch fondue. Anyway, a strange aroma started to seep through the plastics and into my nasal passages.
I somehow garbled the question.
I smell smoke.
Dr. Cipes lifted up my headphones.
"What?"
I formed some non-words again.
I smell smoke.
Dr. Cipes lifted up my headphones again.
"What?"
How long does this Abbott and Costello routine need to go on? More non-words.
I SMELL SMOKE!!!
"Oh."
I felt some commotion in front of me. Heavy patting of my chest. An air hose blowing across the front of my body.
What happened, Doctor?
"Your bib caught on fire."
Sure enough, it did. I left that day with one nerveless tooth and a five inch wide burn mark on my polo shirt.
My subsequent visits to Dr. Cipes were less incendiary. Pretty much, two check-ups a year for the next decade never found a thing wrong. Ultimately, he chose to retire and my dental records were transferred to a new and younger dentist up the road.
My first trip to Dr. Frank Leone would be a breeze. Until he looked in my mouth...
"When was the last time you saw Dr. Cipes?"
It had been six months ago.
"Your mouth is full of cavities and broken fillings. Didn't he see any of this?"
Probably not. That's why you retire. But I can be sure he didn't miss the eighteen holes out at Lake Isle Country Club.
Oddly, I happened to be in New York about ten years ago when I was reading the Westchester newspaper and saw the obituary for Dr. Cipes. He had made it to the age of 90.
Or, as he might like to say, three under par.
Dinner last night: Pulled pork sandwich at Holy Cow.
No comments:
Post a Comment