I had a dentist appointment this past week. Ahead of my visit, my fears accumulated and then developed into full-blown anxiety once I sat down in the waiting room. I signed in, filled out paperwork, then took to watching muted, mindless videos on my phone while waiting for my name to be called.
As the clock ticked, my knee bounced nervously, then the waiting room door swung open and I heard a female voice say, “Clay.” I slowly lifted my head from a video of a dog pretending to help its owner repair a dishwasher and set my sights upon the person summoning me.
Suddenly, as if gravity were removed from the room, my fears floated away upon my realization that it was Debbie, my regular dental hygienist, calling my name. For it wasn’t just a couple of weeks ago I was told she had been away from work. For me, her absence would have only meant one thing. Not only would I have to get acquainted with a new hygienist, but all while holding a mouthful of spit, plaque and water, with a hook between my teeth. Furthermore, our introduction would have surely been established over small talk.
Call me rude all you want, but if I’m going to have a conversation lying on my back, holding my mouth wide open and staring directly into a light, then by George it better be interesting. Fortunately, with Debbie, it’s always interesting. I’ll succumb to a lot of things, but I feel it’s only fair that I’m to be discerning if I’m wearing a paper bib chained around my neck. At the very least, the person with their fingers in my mouth could bend my ear about the history of dental floss.
Needless to say, my fears subsided that day, but I’m sure they’ll return as that train’s never late. Heaven forbid they slap me with a new dentist, I may just have to let my teeth rot!
Later that day, as my wife and I were walking, we saw a man straddling a bike in the middle of the road about 50 feet ahead of us. He looked in distress and appeared to have injuries from some sort of accident. Long story short, we called 911 and he received the help he needed, but it wasn’t that open-and-shut for me.
Before the first responders arrived, he needed help off the bike and wanted badly to sit on the grass nearby. Needing help seemed a reasonable request and we were happy to oblige, but there were a few conditions on my part.
As we engaged him, the first thing I noticed was the blood on his fingers with which he was trying to grab me. Each time I reached for his arms to lift him up, he reached back for me. For a brief 10 seconds or so, it appeared as if I were conducting an orchestra with each dodge of his gory grope. I was trying so hard to help, but I couldn’t dissociate enough to allow my sweaty hands to interlock with his bloody fingers.
After my weaving and bobbing, and saying “calm down” and “there, there,” another passerby was kind enough to stop and help. With his assistance, we were able to lower the gentleman to the ground. I volunteered to hold the front bike tire as the kind stranger was a little more hands-on and lifted the injured man by his sweaty underarms. Being the good Samaritan that I am, I didn’t want to deny our benevolent newcomer the opportunity to perform such immersive help. He seemed to really enjoy it, which made sense when I later found out he was a doctor.
Meanwhile, my wife, whom I often refer to as the little angel on my shoulder, was ensuring that the injured man had enough water to drink and that the first responders had all the information they needed. She even offered to take care of the bike until the matter was settled.
As the dust settled, it was time to resume our walk. At that point, I had taken to my phone to search the effects of unknown blood on the skin. I guess I should have clarified my search because I was given a list of who, what, when and why to be worried about foreign blood, therefore furthering my downward spiral into a realm of things that usually don’t come true.
That night, as I showered, lathering myself in Dial soap and Borax, I made a mental note to share my good Samaritan story with my dental hygienist Debbie, and why not? In the end, I can’t imagine a better moment to share such a tale than while someone else’s fingers are in my mouth.
Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].
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