Clinica Dental

The waiting room was crowded with small brown-faced children. One tiny child clung to a chair in the corner, sobbing softly. If anyone tried to make him go into the operatory, his whimpers turned into screams. I knew exactly how he felt.

"This is a huge mistake," Jay whispered to me. "I can't do this. Let's go home."

Jay had found his quiet corner and sat near the portable X-ray machine, refusing to go back into the operatory. We were more than 2000 miles from Idaho and, at that point, I think we would both have gladly walked the entire way back if it weren't for the fact that we were afraid we would get mugged before we went three blocks.

In the operatory, four dentists and their wives worked at a frantic, but efficient pace. These dentists knew where every instrument was kept. The wives knew how to assist perfectly. Spanish words flowed freely from their lips. 

Jay, on the other hand, had been assigned to an only partially-equipped chair with me, an assistant who knew absolutely nothing about helping. He was expected to do the kind of dental procedures he hadn't done for years with sparse equipment, some of which looked like antiques. There simply wasn't time for the other dentists or wives to stop and help us find the equipment necessary for Jay to do his job. With no high-speed handpiece, no rubber dam, not even an anesthetic syringe, Jay felt useless. 

We said a silent prayer. Then, armed with only a toothbrush, we decided to concentrate on the tiny crying child. In the waiting room, Jay chatted with him in Spanish. I used the few Spanish words that I knew to play silly games with him and make him laugh. Gradually he let go of his teacher's hand and allowed me to carry him into the operatory room where I sat in the dental chair with him on my lap, and Jay gave hygiene instructions. We were able to check that one box off the child's treatment plan. When we took him back to his teacher, he was smiling brightly. We knew he would come back again. 

We knew we would too.