Not for the Faint-Hearted

Occasionally I have the chance to take care of Saint H, rather than the other way around. Yesterday was one of those times. He's had plenty of dental problems over the years, and one tooth in particular has had its share - 2 root canals and a crown in the past. Not long ago that tooth sparked up again; X-rays showed infection in the bone, requiring an apicoectomy, or "root end resection," or "endodontic microsurgery." Whatever one calls it, it's not all that uncommon. It's also a rather extensive procedure; he was in the chair for 90 minutes. He emerged with fat lip and bruised cheek and four prescriptions.

While on the way to the pharmacy, he asked casually, "Did you hear the commotion while I was back there?" I'd heard voices coming from the back and there'd been some bustling about, but it's a busy office and I was knitting so hadn't paid much attention. Turns out the procedure is also rather gruesome; the endodontist had a trainee technician who'd never assisted at one before. When he started removing bone, she fainted.

I guess I've never thought much about how one confronts medical procedures, except as a patient. We're lucky, in some ways; only rarely are we not medicated or sedated or otherwise treated so that the full impact is mitigated. Plus, we don't have to see what's going on most of the time. As Judy, the regular tech, told Saint H, "If she really wants to do this job, she's going to have to get used to it." Is it more bearable for the assistant to know that the procedure will, in the long run, probably make the patient feel better? I suppose that would be the saving grace for me.