W. Daniel Furst, DDS

Some of you may recall a blog installment I posted a month ago in which I described my first root canal appointment. In that installment I introduced the fortuitously-named Dr. Furst, who is the first dentist I’ve liked since I’ve been living in North Carolina. This is no small matter to me, as I have harbored the big daddy of dentistry phobias since I was a wee lass and had several of my baby teeth pulled in one visit without being as anesthetized as I might have liked.

Three weeks ago, I had to go back in for another 2-hour appointment during which Dr. Furst did the build-up for my crown. Having survived my first appointment under the good doctor’s care, I was considerably more relaxed. While I may have been tense and trembling a tad, I at least wasn’t making the floor vibrate this time around. During the two hours of my second appointment, more unpleasant drilling, grinding, and scraping occurred. This time, however, I felt fully confident that Dr. Furst was giving the matter his full attention, and that he would not allow the drill to slip off the tooth and pierce my cerebellum. Best of all, there was more humming. This time it was the Beach Boys’ song, All Summer Long, which solidified my opinion that Dr. Furst was, in fact, a true genius of dentistry.

So yesterday was the final phase of the process. No drilling or scraping this time. All Dr. Furst had to do was to pop in the crown and send me on my way. As this would be the first time I’d seen him without my face full of Novocaine and slobber running down my neck, I looked forward to interacting with him like a normal human being instead of like a patient at a state mental institution. I’d planned to thank him for getting me through the experience in one piece. Of course, there’d be some fond reminiscing as well. “Remember that one time when I was all scared of the needles and drills? HA! Good times . . .” I’d say. Then we would laugh and laugh.

But what really happened was this. I arrived at the office and was ushered to the chair by Thelma, my favorite dental assistant. Just before she pulled my temporary crown off, she said, “You heard about Dr. Furst, right?”

Well, I hadn’t heard about Dr. Furst. Did he get in a fender bender? Did he win the lottery? Was he conked on the dome by an errant golf ball?

“No, what happened?” I said.

“He died.”

Ah, shit.

That’s right. Dr. Furst, genius of dentistry, died in his home at the age of 60, apparently of heart failure. I’d only met him a few times, but after having his hands in my mouth for four hours I’d grown pretty attached to the guy.

But what did I truly know about Dr. Furst? Well, not a whole hell of a lot, but let’s see what I can piece together.

1.) He loved to play golf, but probably would never have qualified for the Senior Tour.

2.) He liked a lot of elbow room when he worked, and preferred a workspace that was uncluttered by patients’ spectacles.

3.) He was liberal with the Novacaine, but was a real hard-ass about Percocet. I don’t know what procedures would warrant a Perc prescription, but a root canal, in Dr. Furst’s opinion, was not one of them. (To his credit, I didn’t actually need them. Not even a little bit.)

4.) He liked to wear a sombrero on occasion, as shown in a photograph behind the reception desk.

5.) He had a nice little hum. Over the course of my visits, I heard a wide range of Dr. Furst’s tuneless avant-garde humming, along with his chipper renditions of Speak Softly Love (The Theme from the Godfather), and the aforementioned Beach Boys song, All Summer Long. Oh, and let’s not forget this one . . . .

Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

And when the sun refuse to shine
And when the sun refuse to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in . . . .

Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm,
Hmm hmm hmm hmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmm,
Hmm-hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm-hmm hmm hmm
Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm. . . .

Thanks for the root canal, Doc. I hope you’re up there kicking Sam Snead’s ass.

There is Nothing Funny About a Root Canal

Guess who had a root canal today. Go on, guess.

Already, I am tired of this game. It was I, Storchy, who had a root canal today. Probably lots of other folks had root canals today, too, but I don’t care about any of those bozos. This installment is about me and my root canal, and if any of you chuckleheads out there want to cry like whiny little sissy-babies about your root canals, you can go and get your own goddamn blog. Now, get outta here. Go on, beat it.

Due to my keenly developed ability to maintain my composure under even the most trying of circumstances, you probably haven’t noticed that today’s ordeal has made me a bit peevish. Though my time in the chair today was not the reenactment of Marathon Man's dental torture scene that I imagined it would be, neither was it the equivalent of an herbal facial. Unless herbal facials involve needles, and drills, and unpleasant grinding noises. Which they well might. As I have never had an herbal facial, I probably wouldn’t know one if it poked me in the eye. Eye-poking, come to think of it, might well be an integral part of the herbal facial and I wouldn’t know it. Really, the whole herbal facial thing was a just crappy analogy, and I wish you’d all just stop harping on it. I have never claimed to be an expert in flowery wordsmithery, nor am I a clown for your amusement.

While the peevishness dissipates even as I type, I feel that today’s root canal experience has permanently and drastically altered my worldview in countless ways, not the least of which include the following:

1. I would NOT rather get a root canal than sit through the Broadway musical, Cats.

2. I would NOT rather get a root canal than listen to a Joan Baez record.

3. I would NOT rather get a root canal than watch an episode of Third Rock.

4. A root canal is NOT more pleasant than a poison ivy rash on my ass.

5. A root canal is NOT more fun or interesting than Statistics 151.

My shifts of position on some other matters were not as extreme. For instance, I used to think that having a root canal would be far more pleasant than listening to small children singing or playing wind instruments. Now feel that it’s six of one, and a half-dozen of the other.

Much to my surprise, there was relatively little pain involved in the root canal process. They shoot you up full of Novacaine so all you feel is a fat numbness in your face that makes you wonder idly whether you’d have a chance at being cast as Joseph Merrick in The Elephant Man.

What gets you is the noise.

ZZZZzzzzZZZZZTTT! SQWEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCRONCH! SCRT! SCRT! SCRT! VVVVZZZZZRRRrrrREET!

The dentistry noises suck ass. I tried all manner of tricks to block them out. Initially I attempted to focus on Dr. Furst’s humming. He has a nice little hum. He started by humming When the Saints Go Marching In. That was swell. Then he began humming Speak Softly Love (the Theme From The Godfather). This, I found disturbing. Later, as he got more into his work, he started combining the two songs into one, which was both disturbing and confusing and left me focusing on the familiar drill noise for comfort. This would not do.

So, as the drilling progressed, I retreated into my head. I searched for a comfort song. Unfortunately, the first one I thought of was The House of Love, a song by Squeeze, which features an electric carving knife sound effect between verses. You’d be surprised by how much an electric carving knife can sound like a dentist drill under the right circumstances.

After considering and rejecting several songs by the rocque-and-rolle noblemen, The Upper Crust, I settled on Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Taxi. It’s an innocuous song just pleasant enough to be distracting, while allowing the dental tool noises to work with it, rather than against it, in the background. Once I’d settled into Tijuana Taxi, my toes were a-tappin’ while my fists were a-clenchin’.

Still, I feel strongly that the dental tool noise issue is one in serious need of attention. I know that all sorts of dentists out there are putting headphones on their patients in effort to drown out the drill noises with music. I actually tried this once, and found it quite stressful. I fretted that the dentist would say something like, “Whatever you do, don’t swallow right now,” but then I wouldn’t hear him because I was getting down to Loose Booty by Funkadelic, and I’d end up with one of those bendy mirrors and a latex glove in my gullet.

If it were up to me (which it seldom is for reasons that I cannot fathom), I’d change the noises that the tools themselves make. And I’m not talking about wimpy little tweaks, such as making their foul noises quieter. What I have in mind is something more along the lines of a Total Noise Overhaul.

I came up with the concept of the Total Noise Overhaul right after I’d realized that I could calculate the square footage of the root canal room by counting the 2-foot ceiling tiles and doing a little multiplication. The size of the room is neither here nor there, but I was just proud that I’d found an unexpected practical application for math.

After I’d determined that the root canal room measured 110 square feet, I thought of an idea that would revolutionize modern dentistry. I mean, what if root canals could be funny?

I started trying to think of things that make me laugh. You know what makes me laugh? People getting hit on the head with a plank. That’s a friggin’ laugh-riot. But I dismissed this idea once I realized that a few folks might associate pain with getting hit on the head, and associate that pain with dentistry, which would be bad. I am not a sadistic monster, after all.

Back to the drawing board. After a bit more ruminating, I said to myself, “Self? You know what else is funny? Farts are funny.”

It’s true. Farts are like the comedy Esperanto of bodily functions. I’ve seen enough foreign films to know that everyone in the whole world thinks that farts are HI-larious. In fact, it would not surprise me if Mel Gibson were to switch it up with a comedy next time that was done all in Fart, with subtitles.

So, that would be one option. Instead of the dental drill going, “ZZZZzzzzZZZZZTTT! SQWEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCRONCH! SCRT! SCRT! SCRT! VVVVZZZZZRRRrrrREET!” it could instead make rude fart noises. This would help patients to keep their mouths open wide, what with the laughing and all. It would also discourage them from swallowing at inappropriate times, thereby preventing the ingestion of bendy mirrors and latex gloves. That idea is a keeper.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I have another idea that I think is absolutely brilliant. Instead of trying to mask the foul drill noise with music played through headphones, why not design a drill that makes a pleasing musical sound as it’s working? After much consideration, I’ve decided that the instrumental intro to Georgy Girl, by The Seekers, would be ideal for this purpose. I mean, who could possibly be annoyed by the sound of those first few, perky measures being played over and over and over again as their teeth were getting bored out? No one that I can think of. Certainly not I.

Well, there you have it. I, Storchy, went to the dentist and took one for the team. But I did not sit passively in the chair while a complete stranger drilled holes in my head. Instead, I made the most of my time, devising a plan that will make the world a better place for Everyman. I encourage all of you potential root canal candidates out there to do the same, because nobody likes a whiny little sissy-baby.