My dentist
works at the weekend. As I arrived at 9.20am Sunday morning to finally have my
annoying molar extracted there was already another patient waiting.
When my turn
came, I asked how he felt about working on a Sunday. ‘Yes, a sunny Sunday. A
sunny Sunday in England’ (he’s Greek) he said. He told me that he loves his
work, and that he wouldn’t be there if he didn’t. I replayed his tone for signs
of untruth and couldn’t find any. I think he genuinely loves dentistry.
As he pulled
my tooth out (one of the weirdest experiences of my life so far) he looked at
it and said ‘Ah, my beautiful root canal work’ with more than a tinge of sadness
in his voice. Two appointments previously he’d been delighted to find a fourth
canal in my tooth. Genuinely delighted- a chance to save it! As he stood there with my four-canaled molar held
aloft I felt I’d let him down by not having a tooth which behaved, and apologised.
He waived
the fee (I’ve seen him 14 times in four months and only paid one NHS charge and
one emergency appointment charge) and sent me on my way with a hole in my gum,
my tooth in a little bag and best wishes for all of my family.
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