OUCH!

EXIT

 

He'd been a dentist for fifty years. There's hardly a person in Ruxton, VA who hasn't sat in his pump-up chair, opened wide, to get a prophy, a filling or two, a root canal done. The smell of the Lifebouy soap, his Sen Sen breath, his pleasant smile put just about everybody at ease. They more than liked him. They respected him.

 

A more modern costly X-ray machine did not mean his fees rose. Patients were more than patients. They were his friends. Dr. & Mrs. Bachman were invited to dinners, weddings, funerals too, graduations. And boy, could he tell a joke, clean or dirty, laughter came thru his almost closed office door.

 

With all the simple wonders, he could be the captain or a lackey, sterilizing instruments, licking statement stamps, mopping the vestibule where rain leaked in. And prompt! Only the wildest, worst emergency would cause his patients to not be seated, draped, on time. He told me often how much he disliked waiting anywhere, especially when he had a legitimate appointment. Mrs. Fink had to wait when she heard him yowl while he worked on her husband. Mr. Frank started to laugh just as Dr. Bachman was going to novocaine his right lower molar for a root canal. Dr. Bachman pulled back fast, but not fast enough. He anaesthetized his own thumb. It was about four in the afternoon which meant he had to close the office, give his patient another appointment.

 

What he loved more than anything was having parents bring their toddlers in for an up and down ride on his dental chair. He would spray their noses with a tiny bit of Listerine, put a napkin around each little, darling neck, show them how the faucet worked without touching it.
It didn't take long for the children to come in for a check up, get a small toy and a hug. As soon as Dr. Bachman heard one of his patients gave birth, he wrote a personal welcome letter to the babe. Included would be a miniature plastic set of dentures.  My children still have theirs.

 

I have wondered over the years why Dr. & Mrs. Bachman weren't rich. His practice was large, the chair occupied seven hours a day. Saturdays the doctor spent at the Penitentiary fixing prisoners' teeth with no remuneration and probably without a thank you either. Once I saw him at his back garage door, just as twilight was to become nite. He let in a black man, in pain, holding his jaw. I wouldn't venture a guess how many times he did that. Some of his patients, had they known, would have found another dentist.

 

Gradually he realized it was time to retire. Still trying to please everyone, he mailed individual letters  announcing his full and complete retirement on Sept. 1, 1958. His and his wife's luggage were at the front door, waiting for a cab to take them to the train station. He didn't make it. A heart attack killed him even before an ambulance arrived.

 

Dr. Bachman's son, already a well accepted dentist with a practice growing fast, handled all the many details of donating the office and waiting room furniture, giving the silver and gold, all supplies to teaching schools. The last thing Dr. Bachman, Jr. went over were a few remaining bills belonging to eight patients who had been with his Dad for the entire fifty years. Seven sent checks with condolence notes arrived. Only Mrs. Brodsky whose full mouth dentures were billed at $50, never paid for them.

 

Dr. Bachman would have forgiven her the debt. I can't.