After the dental assistant pointed it out to him last month, Stan examined the scarring on my palate. I said it was caused by gulping too-hot coffee a few days ago and that the pain had been easing. He insisted that I return in fourteen days; it would only take a couple of minutes to check, and there would be no charge. A week later I phoned his office. The area felt fine, I said, so there was no need for me to come in. He insisted.
This morning he explained, “I have patients who’ve told me that they felt nothing was wrong, and they’ve lost their tongues and parts of their mouths.” I obediently sat down. Knowledge usually dispels but can also beget fear. After inspecting my mouth, he gave me a clean bill of health while his assistant chirped, “he’ll live”. I gave her the sullen look that I give all people who are cheery before 8 a.m.
I presented Stan with an article that I had clipped from the morning Chron. Ancient residents of Pakistan had practiced skillful dentistry. Trying to provoke a reaction, I said that not much had changed in 7,500 years. He let the remark slide and grinned when he read the article. He’s been working at the same job for over 25 years and is still genuinely interested in his profession and the welfare of his patients. No, Stan, thank you.
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