"My mom is a never-ending song in my heart of
comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget
the words but I always remember the tune."
~Graycie Harmon
My mother stood in the doorway on that Easter Sunday afternoon, tilting her head to visualize my presence through the murky cloud of macular degeneration. An ocular stroke in her left eye and the ravages of eighty-three years had left her legally blind.
Her face showed the simple life she desired. Deep wrinkles and random age spots were tattooed badges of survival. Her brown-graying hair was slightly whiter around the edges since the last time I was home. She still curled it with pink sponges in her ever-simple way.
She was never glamorous, always uncomplicated. Her dress, worn in the vein of a plain, life-long uniform, was a light-blue, small-flowered pattern with food stains on the front, undetected by her ailing eyes.
My family were already loading the car, and as I subtly tried to pull away, I could not let go of my angry disappointment.
Her name had finally come to the top of the list on a nearby senior housing unit; but despite her life-long desire to live in a new place, she denied herself the luxury. The threadbare linoleum in the narrow hall reflected her choice to remain within her own familiarity. Fear took away another dream.
A couple of years earlier when Mom had suffered the stroke, she attempted to lay guilt on me by hinting that she should consider a nursing home. I suggested that all she had needed was a roommate, thinking of someone with healthy eyes.
She assumed I meant the company of a man and shook her head, "I'm afraid I'd get a talker.” My dad had the Irish gift of gab and when he went into assisted living, she may have enjoyed the peace of being alone.
Torn between my waiting family and abandoning her, I blurted out, "I've got to go."
Mom pulled me back into her musty apartment, chilled from her frugal thermostat, curtains pulled as life had closed upon her vision, to say her private good-bye. Her family were stoic Norwegians, so a nod and a wink would always do for a hug.
"I tried to do my best,” she said. “There were a couple of things that I didn’t like about myself. I was a jealous person, and I wish I’d known better how to show my love."
Then she hugged me hard, a hug that’s lasted forever.
A week later on Monday night, she died in the hall on her way to bed.
Looking back at our final moments, I understand the meaning of perfect parenting. I've never felt the need to be jealous and although I express my love daily, it's never enough.
No regrets.
-- Patrick J Foy, DDS
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
THE RIGHT ANSWER
My daughters' young faces are glowing from the monitor screen as I walk into the dark computer room unnoticed. They are honing their detective skills to solve a mystery in the most recent series of "Nancy Drew" computer games.
If they are stumped, there is no sense of cheating when they leave the game to find the right answer on the Internet. They access chat-groups, websites or social networks, compiling and sharing a plethora of digital routes in the same way we used to trade baseball cards. When it comes to outside help in solving a Nancy Drew mystery, they have not honestly hurt anyone but themselves. They are innocently developing a programmed habit of seeking for the right answers to many of life’s questions in their endless and limitless digital world.
When I was a kid and stuck a piece of candy in my pocket without paying, it was clear that I was stealing. But our children have grown up in a digital world filled with fuzzy borders. Many of them will download a pirated movie or a MP3 tune without equating that behavior with theft.
These kids are raiding the candy store of copyrighted media, national exams and areas beyond our understanding without realizing that everything is not free for the taking. Unfortunately, there are no recognizable doors or cashiers to keep them honest;. They acquire information without permission and without appreciating the moral or legal ramifications of violating intellectual property rights.
A colleague of mine has a twelve-year-old computer phenomenon that was able to hack through a certain government agency's firewalls. It wasn't until the FBI was at their door that the father knew the high level of skills his son had acquired. The child’s game of “challenge” evolved into an illegal trespass into governmental data.
Our young people search with a mob-like mentality within the immense network of the internet, and all moral checks and balances are totally absent or unappreciated. We have not been sitting next to them at the computer to instill our values and moral fiber.
Just the fact that we can access specific information does not necessarily mean that it is in the public domain and free for the taking. How do we know such information is valid?
We will be left with what we teach our children. The ethics of this new digital world is in our hands. But how do we address a problem that we can neither see nor comprehend? I suspect Madoff’s gang thought they had found “The Right Answer”.
If they are stumped, there is no sense of cheating when they leave the game to find the right answer on the Internet. They access chat-groups, websites or social networks, compiling and sharing a plethora of digital routes in the same way we used to trade baseball cards. When it comes to outside help in solving a Nancy Drew mystery, they have not honestly hurt anyone but themselves. They are innocently developing a programmed habit of seeking for the right answers to many of life’s questions in their endless and limitless digital world.
When I was a kid and stuck a piece of candy in my pocket without paying, it was clear that I was stealing. But our children have grown up in a digital world filled with fuzzy borders. Many of them will download a pirated movie or a MP3 tune without equating that behavior with theft.
These kids are raiding the candy store of copyrighted media, national exams and areas beyond our understanding without realizing that everything is not free for the taking. Unfortunately, there are no recognizable doors or cashiers to keep them honest;. They acquire information without permission and without appreciating the moral or legal ramifications of violating intellectual property rights.
A colleague of mine has a twelve-year-old computer phenomenon that was able to hack through a certain government agency's firewalls. It wasn't until the FBI was at their door that the father knew the high level of skills his son had acquired. The child’s game of “challenge” evolved into an illegal trespass into governmental data.
Our young people search with a mob-like mentality within the immense network of the internet, and all moral checks and balances are totally absent or unappreciated. We have not been sitting next to them at the computer to instill our values and moral fiber.
Just the fact that we can access specific information does not necessarily mean that it is in the public domain and free for the taking. How do we know such information is valid?
We will be left with what we teach our children. The ethics of this new digital world is in our hands. But how do we address a problem that we can neither see nor comprehend? I suspect Madoff’s gang thought they had found “The Right Answer”.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
THE CENTERVILLE DANCEHALL
Dancing is a wonderful training for girls;
it’s the first way you learn to guess what
a man is going to do before he does it.”
-- Christopher Morley (1890-1957)
Every Saturday night the small town of Centerville, South Dakota was invaded by hoards of high-energy teens in penny loafers, blue jeans, plaid shirts and cool casuals from miles around. They came to kick up their heels to garage bands thumping out rock-n-roll hits.
My parents, Ted and Nora Foy, met at a dancehall near Yankton, South Dakota in the 1940s, and from 1958 to 1970, they owned their special oasis, "The Broadway Ballroom." The massive, white-clapboard monstrosity took up half-a-city-block on the corner of Broadway and Lincoln.
It was an opera house built in the late 1800s. During the dance craze of the early 1900s, a pavilion had been added to create an expansive floor with high, pressed-tin ceilings, oak-planked floors waxed for dancing, knotty-pine booths and benches, with classic red-and-white Coca-Cola signs on walls that were pungent with stale, past Saturday nights.
My father, Ted, the flat-top, sparkplug Irishman, and my mother, Nora, the ever-so-simple Norwegian, enjoyed watching these Midwestern kids have fun on the stage they created to put a few extra bucks in their pockets. Nora, parked in the ticket booth, handled the money, and Ted booked the bands, played amateur advertiser, part-time bouncer and all-around manager.
Bill was our enforcer. A towering six-foot-plus farm boy had arms thick as the timbers to muscle intoxicated youths to the door. He used the out-of-line teen heads as battle-rams cupped under each arm to open the swinging doors to the streets.
I was the geeky kid who was either dancing or sweeping the floors, stocking the concession stand, running for change, putting antifreeze in the toilets, scouting for trouble before someone got hurt and watching my parents work with passion and joy.
It was a prosperous and innocent era. Throughout the small farming community, the car-filled streets, stores, restaurants, bars and bowling alley bustled with the weekly hullabaloo.
Since we catered to teens, beer and hard booze were not allowed in the hall. Rumors of bottles spread swiftly. The offenders were banned for the rest of the night, but welcomed back the next week in exchange for a promise and apology.
Soda was served in glass bottles, chips were plain or barbecued, popcorn and candy bars were the only fare at the make-shift concession stand.
The music was on track promptly at 8:00 PM and never lasted past midnight. Wood-shedding bands like Patch of Blue, Smoke Ring, The Famous Apostles, The Seven Sons, Natural Colors and their line-dancers along with other up-and-coming groups were booked to impress the locals with aspiring musical talents.
Cold winter nights meant frozen toilets, frosted windows dripping moisture inside, small crowds dancing with snow boots, lost overcoats in a coat room jammed in disarray, spin-outs on the road home.
On hot summer nights the place rocked with sweaty, boogie-down teens dripping in hormonal exasperation. One summer night in 1968, with the three-piece Bobby Alison and the Shattoes, the stars were aligned when record attendance shot up to nearly 700, and the Fire Marshall was nowhere to be found.
The townsfolk had a love/hate with the ballroom. They wanted Centerville to prosper, but didn't appreciate the raucous, outlaw imports of nearby towns.
Sometimes a group of cocky Sioux Falls kids would make the journey. The University of South Dakota in Vermillion, twenty miles south, brought in the older, educated crowd smelling of alcohol. Drag races were staged west of town on the old beach road. Town gang fights were scheduled on the outskirts.
Beer cans thrown in the alleys, urination in the bushes and fatal automobile accidents on the country roads kept vigilant lawmen nearby. The highway patrol came armed with tape measures to ticket those who jacked up their car's rear end beyond the legal limits.
Meanwhile, the Battle of the Bands, Go-Go Girls, Beatle Boots and goofy hats, radio ads on KELO and KISD, Tommy Bolin's high school band, drum solos, howling Vox, organs, Fender guitars, harmonic vocals, all brought Southeastern South Dakota teens twisting, jerking, swimming, ponying and jigger-bugging into Ted and Nora's Centerville Dancehall destination.
Great Balls of fire brought down this ancient jewel and tinder box June of 1970 on a sleepy Sunday morning. Sparing a potential disaster and ending an era of many great years of music on Centerville’s main street.
Requests?
-- Patrick J Foy
it’s the first way you learn to guess what
a man is going to do before he does it.”
-- Christopher Morley (1890-1957)
Every Saturday night the small town of Centerville, South Dakota was invaded by hoards of high-energy teens in penny loafers, blue jeans, plaid shirts and cool casuals from miles around. They came to kick up their heels to garage bands thumping out rock-n-roll hits.
My parents, Ted and Nora Foy, met at a dancehall near Yankton, South Dakota in the 1940s, and from 1958 to 1970, they owned their special oasis, "The Broadway Ballroom." The massive, white-clapboard monstrosity took up half-a-city-block on the corner of Broadway and Lincoln.
It was an opera house built in the late 1800s. During the dance craze of the early 1900s, a pavilion had been added to create an expansive floor with high, pressed-tin ceilings, oak-planked floors waxed for dancing, knotty-pine booths and benches, with classic red-and-white Coca-Cola signs on walls that were pungent with stale, past Saturday nights.
My father, Ted, the flat-top, sparkplug Irishman, and my mother, Nora, the ever-so-simple Norwegian, enjoyed watching these Midwestern kids have fun on the stage they created to put a few extra bucks in their pockets. Nora, parked in the ticket booth, handled the money, and Ted booked the bands, played amateur advertiser, part-time bouncer and all-around manager.
Bill was our enforcer. A towering six-foot-plus farm boy had arms thick as the timbers to muscle intoxicated youths to the door. He used the out-of-line teen heads as battle-rams cupped under each arm to open the swinging doors to the streets.
I was the geeky kid who was either dancing or sweeping the floors, stocking the concession stand, running for change, putting antifreeze in the toilets, scouting for trouble before someone got hurt and watching my parents work with passion and joy.
It was a prosperous and innocent era. Throughout the small farming community, the car-filled streets, stores, restaurants, bars and bowling alley bustled with the weekly hullabaloo.
Since we catered to teens, beer and hard booze were not allowed in the hall. Rumors of bottles spread swiftly. The offenders were banned for the rest of the night, but welcomed back the next week in exchange for a promise and apology.
Soda was served in glass bottles, chips were plain or barbecued, popcorn and candy bars were the only fare at the make-shift concession stand.
The music was on track promptly at 8:00 PM and never lasted past midnight. Wood-shedding bands like Patch of Blue, Smoke Ring, The Famous Apostles, The Seven Sons, Natural Colors and their line-dancers along with other up-and-coming groups were booked to impress the locals with aspiring musical talents.
Cold winter nights meant frozen toilets, frosted windows dripping moisture inside, small crowds dancing with snow boots, lost overcoats in a coat room jammed in disarray, spin-outs on the road home.
On hot summer nights the place rocked with sweaty, boogie-down teens dripping in hormonal exasperation. One summer night in 1968, with the three-piece Bobby Alison and the Shattoes, the stars were aligned when record attendance shot up to nearly 700, and the Fire Marshall was nowhere to be found.
The townsfolk had a love/hate with the ballroom. They wanted Centerville to prosper, but didn't appreciate the raucous, outlaw imports of nearby towns.
Sometimes a group of cocky Sioux Falls kids would make the journey. The University of South Dakota in Vermillion, twenty miles south, brought in the older, educated crowd smelling of alcohol. Drag races were staged west of town on the old beach road. Town gang fights were scheduled on the outskirts.
Beer cans thrown in the alleys, urination in the bushes and fatal automobile accidents on the country roads kept vigilant lawmen nearby. The highway patrol came armed with tape measures to ticket those who jacked up their car's rear end beyond the legal limits.
Meanwhile, the Battle of the Bands, Go-Go Girls, Beatle Boots and goofy hats, radio ads on KELO and KISD, Tommy Bolin's high school band, drum solos, howling Vox, organs, Fender guitars, harmonic vocals, all brought Southeastern South Dakota teens twisting, jerking, swimming, ponying and jigger-bugging into Ted and Nora's Centerville Dancehall destination.
Great Balls of fire brought down this ancient jewel and tinder box June of 1970 on a sleepy Sunday morning. Sparing a potential disaster and ending an era of many great years of music on Centerville’s main street.
Requests?
-- Patrick J Foy
Friday, March 19, 2010
THE DENTAL TANGO
"Life is a shipwreck but we must not to
forget to sing in the life boats"
-- Voltaire
The dance between the dentist and the patient is unpredictable. Each person's style requires a unique choreography. Some take the Two-Step, others require the Waltz, but with Tanya it was definitely the Tango.
She lay reclined in a motorized wheelchair; bellowing cheeks, bright eyes, curly, muddy-red-blond hair, huge lips, exaggerated make-up, no neck, hands that appeared to be plastic and a dress wrapped around a small ovoid body. A mouth stick was attached to the wheelchair near her chin as she gasped rhythmically for air.
Polio had affected Tanya's spinal column at a level of C-3 at a young age in the 1950s. Her lungs were not involved, but the intercostals muscles of her chest, abdomen and diaphragm were paralyzed.
Most people in this condition are confined to an iron lung, but Tanya was an exception. She skilled herself in getting people to do what she couldn’t. And for routine dental care without hospitalization, she taught me to perform the "Dental Tango."
Our procedure worked between Tanya's breathing for air and my brief invasive interruptions. Tanya would gulp, gulp, gulp, then I would drill for five seconds and get out. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Drill five seconds. Get out. The routine became second nature. Sometimes she would speak between gulps, and the pattern continued for the whole time she was in the chair. I was particularly proud of myself when we restored a maxillary second molar. On prior visits I feared that Tanya become overly dependant on our office for her care, ironically I now realized that Tanya had just trained me well.
Sometimes I'd go to her high-rise condo in downtown St. Paul to clean her teeth with a portable hand piece and conduct a limited visual exam. She was on state assistance but the high technical quality of her home was surprising. Her iron lung had a life-depending back-up generator, and this was not the easiest item to locate in the housing market.
Tanya also required a personal attendant to feed, bath, move her and perform all daily activities, and it was apparent their special relationship was built on intimate trust.
Tanya was a dictator. She learned early that if she did not demand the care she needed, she would not survive. She was driven to manipulate, insist, coerce and just plain bully. She did not exclude herself.
Tanya's body was forced into a new form. Her cheeks were huge because she bellowed them to swallow the maximum amount of air. Her neck was wide allowing an expanded airway from base of her skull to her shoulders. The shape of her head was altered by the face masks and elastics to maintain an air-tight seal. Her mouth had developed a big anterior open bite from the wooden mouth stick to operate her computer.
The lack of a working diaphragm and chest muscles affected her ability to clear her lungs. The secretions can act as glue preventing the lungs from proper inflation and causing collapse (atelectasia) resulting in upper respiratory infections and pneumonia. Several doctors told her that she would not survive this condition, but she outlived many of them.
She miraculously learned to mentally control her epiglottis because a ventilator hook-up would have limited her mobility. Fewer than twenty people in the world have learned the art of "pharyngeal breathing."
Tanya was personally affected by the meddling of the legislature over benefits and program cuts. She lobbied successfully on behalf of the disabled, and she was elected ‘Miss Wheelchair Minnesota.’
Tanya was our dental patient for more than fifteen years and she never had a bad day. She was a fighter who showed us that attitude can do it all. If we can’t control what knocks us down, we can choose how we react to it.
For Tanya, it was the dance.
--Patrick J. Foy, DDS, Minneapolis
forget to sing in the life boats"
-- Voltaire
The dance between the dentist and the patient is unpredictable. Each person's style requires a unique choreography. Some take the Two-Step, others require the Waltz, but with Tanya it was definitely the Tango.
She lay reclined in a motorized wheelchair; bellowing cheeks, bright eyes, curly, muddy-red-blond hair, huge lips, exaggerated make-up, no neck, hands that appeared to be plastic and a dress wrapped around a small ovoid body. A mouth stick was attached to the wheelchair near her chin as she gasped rhythmically for air.
Polio had affected Tanya's spinal column at a level of C-3 at a young age in the 1950s. Her lungs were not involved, but the intercostals muscles of her chest, abdomen and diaphragm were paralyzed.
Most people in this condition are confined to an iron lung, but Tanya was an exception. She skilled herself in getting people to do what she couldn’t. And for routine dental care without hospitalization, she taught me to perform the "Dental Tango."
Our procedure worked between Tanya's breathing for air and my brief invasive interruptions. Tanya would gulp, gulp, gulp, then I would drill for five seconds and get out. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Drill five seconds. Get out. The routine became second nature. Sometimes she would speak between gulps, and the pattern continued for the whole time she was in the chair. I was particularly proud of myself when we restored a maxillary second molar. On prior visits I feared that Tanya become overly dependant on our office for her care, ironically I now realized that Tanya had just trained me well.
Sometimes I'd go to her high-rise condo in downtown St. Paul to clean her teeth with a portable hand piece and conduct a limited visual exam. She was on state assistance but the high technical quality of her home was surprising. Her iron lung had a life-depending back-up generator, and this was not the easiest item to locate in the housing market.
Tanya also required a personal attendant to feed, bath, move her and perform all daily activities, and it was apparent their special relationship was built on intimate trust.
Tanya was a dictator. She learned early that if she did not demand the care she needed, she would not survive. She was driven to manipulate, insist, coerce and just plain bully. She did not exclude herself.
Tanya's body was forced into a new form. Her cheeks were huge because she bellowed them to swallow the maximum amount of air. Her neck was wide allowing an expanded airway from base of her skull to her shoulders. The shape of her head was altered by the face masks and elastics to maintain an air-tight seal. Her mouth had developed a big anterior open bite from the wooden mouth stick to operate her computer.
The lack of a working diaphragm and chest muscles affected her ability to clear her lungs. The secretions can act as glue preventing the lungs from proper inflation and causing collapse (atelectasia) resulting in upper respiratory infections and pneumonia. Several doctors told her that she would not survive this condition, but she outlived many of them.
She miraculously learned to mentally control her epiglottis because a ventilator hook-up would have limited her mobility. Fewer than twenty people in the world have learned the art of "pharyngeal breathing."
Tanya was personally affected by the meddling of the legislature over benefits and program cuts. She lobbied successfully on behalf of the disabled, and she was elected ‘Miss Wheelchair Minnesota.’
Tanya was our dental patient for more than fifteen years and she never had a bad day. She was a fighter who showed us that attitude can do it all. If we can’t control what knocks us down, we can choose how we react to it.
For Tanya, it was the dance.
--Patrick J. Foy, DDS, Minneapolis
Monday, March 8, 2010
CHOOSING TO LIVE
"If standard of living is your major objective,
quality of life almost never improves; but if quality of life is
your number one objective, your standard of living
almost always improves.”
-- Zig Ziglar, Author and Motivational Speaker
"I used to eat sheet rock,” the patient confessed, "They call it pica.”
He was a small Hispanic man whose boyish, olive-brown face was coarsely scarred and framed with neatly-trimmed jet-black hair. As I filled out his medical history forms, he peered at me with jaundiced eyes, hoping to catch my response.
“I suffered from severe depression and almost died several times,” he said, as if he had often shared this story. “But now I’m trying to get my act together for a kidney transplant. I want to live."
He resided in a nursing home; his kidneys had shut down and he was dependent on dialysis three times a week. Blood chemistry issues also compromised his ability to heal. The downward spiral of mental health had left his general health in shambles.
The patient had been referred by "Donated Dental Service," a volunteer program to treat people who are medically compromised. This man had destroyed most of his dentition with a combination of depression, neglect and the assault of chewing abrasive sheet rock.
The name pica comes from the Latin word for Magpie, a bird that will eat almost anything. The condition is world-wide, but because of patient’s shame and low incidence, pica often goes undetected. Causes may be cultural, physical (malnutrition and mineral deficiencies), and mental (developmental and psychological).
The erosion to this man’s maxillary anterior teeth was remarkable; they were worn down to the alveolar bone exposing unprotected nerves and dentin. His mouth was riddled with worn, fractured, decayed and abscessed teeth. Paired with poor oral hygiene, his dental state was catastrophic. A treatment plan was challenging because pica relapse is not uncommon. His fervent will to live became our motivator in helping him.
Many of his teeth were extracted and replaced with removable upper and lower dental prosthetics. Now he could eat and speak properly, and with his body rid of future dental infection risks, he was a better candidate for a kidney transplant to help satisfy his goal.
He said, "Everybody has been complimenting me on my new smile. I’ve never had straight teeth before. I can’t believe it."
It would be a pleasure to report that this man has received his kidney transplant, but he is not there yet. Despite several setbacks requiring hospitalization, he is slowly improving.
The interconnection of dental, mental and medical problems was clearly apparent in this extreme case of pica. However, these relationships cannot be as neatly separated as we formerly believed.
Medical pathology needs to be evaluated with a differential of possible mental health causes. People tend to ignore their dental health from stress, depression, low self-esteem, physical pain and other conditions. Anti-cholinergic medications, poor diets, poor hygiene and lack of preventive dental services also contribute.
"I want to live."
That was the mantra for our dedicated response.
-- Patrick J Foy, DDS
quality of life almost never improves; but if quality of life is
your number one objective, your standard of living
almost always improves.”
-- Zig Ziglar, Author and Motivational Speaker
"I used to eat sheet rock,” the patient confessed, "They call it pica.”
He was a small Hispanic man whose boyish, olive-brown face was coarsely scarred and framed with neatly-trimmed jet-black hair. As I filled out his medical history forms, he peered at me with jaundiced eyes, hoping to catch my response.
“I suffered from severe depression and almost died several times,” he said, as if he had often shared this story. “But now I’m trying to get my act together for a kidney transplant. I want to live."
He resided in a nursing home; his kidneys had shut down and he was dependent on dialysis three times a week. Blood chemistry issues also compromised his ability to heal. The downward spiral of mental health had left his general health in shambles.
The patient had been referred by "Donated Dental Service," a volunteer program to treat people who are medically compromised. This man had destroyed most of his dentition with a combination of depression, neglect and the assault of chewing abrasive sheet rock.
The name pica comes from the Latin word for Magpie, a bird that will eat almost anything. The condition is world-wide, but because of patient’s shame and low incidence, pica often goes undetected. Causes may be cultural, physical (malnutrition and mineral deficiencies), and mental (developmental and psychological).
The erosion to this man’s maxillary anterior teeth was remarkable; they were worn down to the alveolar bone exposing unprotected nerves and dentin. His mouth was riddled with worn, fractured, decayed and abscessed teeth. Paired with poor oral hygiene, his dental state was catastrophic. A treatment plan was challenging because pica relapse is not uncommon. His fervent will to live became our motivator in helping him.
Many of his teeth were extracted and replaced with removable upper and lower dental prosthetics. Now he could eat and speak properly, and with his body rid of future dental infection risks, he was a better candidate for a kidney transplant to help satisfy his goal.
He said, "Everybody has been complimenting me on my new smile. I’ve never had straight teeth before. I can’t believe it."
It would be a pleasure to report that this man has received his kidney transplant, but he is not there yet. Despite several setbacks requiring hospitalization, he is slowly improving.
The interconnection of dental, mental and medical problems was clearly apparent in this extreme case of pica. However, these relationships cannot be as neatly separated as we formerly believed.
Medical pathology needs to be evaluated with a differential of possible mental health causes. People tend to ignore their dental health from stress, depression, low self-esteem, physical pain and other conditions. Anti-cholinergic medications, poor diets, poor hygiene and lack of preventive dental services also contribute.
"I want to live."
That was the mantra for our dedicated response.
-- Patrick J Foy, DDS
Monday, February 8, 2010
THE STAR OF DAVID
"Question with boldness even the existence of a God;
because, if there be one, he must more approve of
the homage of reason, than that of blind-folded fear."
-- Thomas Jefferson
His shiny black boots were laced up to his knees. Dressed in black, sporting Nazi swastikas on two arm bands, hair slicked back, Larry Trapp was a self-professed Nazi who wore the uniform daily and without apology. He boldly leaned on the wall waiting for his appointment at the University of Nebraska Dental School.
The "Nazi guy" visited so often, I assumed he had a lot of dental needs. Severe diabetes would later account for his frequent appearances. With his inability to fight off infections, he was prone to severe gum disease.
Trapp’s racist antics and hate crimes were often described in the Lincoln press. He was anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic and rumored to be Grand Dragon in the Ku Klux Klan. He preached bigotry on his own cable access channel and a criminal rap sheet reflected his hateful behavior.
In 1994, I was driving to work in Minneapolis listening to public radio and heard that a play about Larry Trapp was being performed at the local Heart of Beast Puppet and Mask Theater. The title was “Befriended by the Enemy,” a remarkable story of conversion and faith.
In 1991, Trapp had besieged a Jewish cantor Michael Weisser and his wife, Julie, with obscene phone calls in Lincoln, Nebraska. One day, the cantor responded that he’d heard Trapp had a foot amputated from diabetes. If he needed help with getting groceries, Weisser would stop by his house to get a list and go to the store. Trapp agreed and before he left, Michael told Julie that if he did not return home, to call the police.
When Weisser arrived at Trapp’s apartment, he was surprised to see how small it was. Firearms were spread throughout the room and Nazi flags were hanging on the walls. The cantor and his wife began routinely bringing groceries to Trapp, talking with him and helping him out. Somehow their kindness got through to the man. Trapp eventually begged for their forgiveness and actually converted to Judaism. In 1992, he spent the last two months of his life at home with the Weissers and their two small children.
.
I waited until my twenty-fifth class reunion at the University of Nebraska to share this story with my colleagues, who remembered Trapp well from the dental school.
Before hearing the Weisser story one classmate sheepishly shared, “You know, I was working on the Nazi Guy and he needed a gold crown on his tooth. Right before cementing it, I carved the Star of David inside.”
May wonders never cease. By Patrick J Foy, DDS Jan. 2010
because, if there be one, he must more approve of
the homage of reason, than that of blind-folded fear."
-- Thomas Jefferson
His shiny black boots were laced up to his knees. Dressed in black, sporting Nazi swastikas on two arm bands, hair slicked back, Larry Trapp was a self-professed Nazi who wore the uniform daily and without apology. He boldly leaned on the wall waiting for his appointment at the University of Nebraska Dental School.
The "Nazi guy" visited so often, I assumed he had a lot of dental needs. Severe diabetes would later account for his frequent appearances. With his inability to fight off infections, he was prone to severe gum disease.
Trapp’s racist antics and hate crimes were often described in the Lincoln press. He was anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic and rumored to be Grand Dragon in the Ku Klux Klan. He preached bigotry on his own cable access channel and a criminal rap sheet reflected his hateful behavior.
In 1994, I was driving to work in Minneapolis listening to public radio and heard that a play about Larry Trapp was being performed at the local Heart of Beast Puppet and Mask Theater. The title was “Befriended by the Enemy,” a remarkable story of conversion and faith.
In 1991, Trapp had besieged a Jewish cantor Michael Weisser and his wife, Julie, with obscene phone calls in Lincoln, Nebraska. One day, the cantor responded that he’d heard Trapp had a foot amputated from diabetes. If he needed help with getting groceries, Weisser would stop by his house to get a list and go to the store. Trapp agreed and before he left, Michael told Julie that if he did not return home, to call the police.
When Weisser arrived at Trapp’s apartment, he was surprised to see how small it was. Firearms were spread throughout the room and Nazi flags were hanging on the walls. The cantor and his wife began routinely bringing groceries to Trapp, talking with him and helping him out. Somehow their kindness got through to the man. Trapp eventually begged for their forgiveness and actually converted to Judaism. In 1992, he spent the last two months of his life at home with the Weissers and their two small children.
.
I waited until my twenty-fifth class reunion at the University of Nebraska to share this story with my colleagues, who remembered Trapp well from the dental school.
Before hearing the Weisser story one classmate sheepishly shared, “You know, I was working on the Nazi Guy and he needed a gold crown on his tooth. Right before cementing it, I carved the Star of David inside.”
May wonders never cease. By Patrick J Foy, DDS Jan. 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
DOWN AND OUT
DOWN AND OUT
By Patrick J. Foy, DDS
“People are like stained-glass windows.
They sparkle and shine when the sun is out,
but when the darkness sets in their
true beauty is revealed only
if there is light from within.”
~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
A bush of kinky dishwater-blonde hair masked the woman’s face with total disarray as she trembled like a newly-trapped animal. She dropped her head, trying to hide a face scaled with white patches and randomly sliced with reddened, shallow incisions. She glared at her feet with empty sullen eyes. Cat-scratched hands shook, clasping open and closed. In contrast, the drab-green, oversized hospital gown she wore carried a freshly-laundered, light fragrance.
Jane’s medical chart revealed that she was a middle-aged woman who had been found homeless in a back alley of downtown Minneapolis. She was dirty and cold, incapable of responding to simple questions, mumbling in a state of catatonic depression. After being taken to the E. R. for psychological evaluation, she was admitted to Station #22 where they attended to her basic needs.
Medication and electro-shock therapy soon re-fired her conscious state and brought on the agonizing dental pain caused from long neglect and an abusive boyfriend.
Before dealing with it, we had to work on stranger-anxiety as with a small child or any frightened creature.
Upon entering the room, to respect her personal space, I moved to the foot of the dental chair until she reached a state of acceptance.
“Jane, I appreciate that you’re a little nervous. I was deathly afraid of the dentist as a teenager. Your chart indicates that you have been having some tooth pain?” She nodded and cupped her jaw.
“Does the lower-left side hurt today?” She nodded again. “Can you point at which tooth is hurting you?” Her body shuddered as she opened her mouth and pointed to the back. From a distance, I could see her hollow, brown molars on red, swollen gums.
Sensing humiliation, I said, “My mother lost her teeth when she was twenty-seven and my father lost his at fifty. Both were good people.” She stopped writhing and for the first time relaxed with a calm that appeared to be trust.
We took a Panorex, a full x-ray of her upper and lower jaw, which showed that only two teeth were salvageable. Over the long term, they, too, would be of little value.
.
I gently explained that most of her teeth were beyond repair, but today we would attempt to relieve her pain. We discussed options for short and long-term future care, and she asked excellent questions. Later, she told us that she’d worked as a dental-lab technician.
In preparation for complete upper and lower immediate dentures, Jane returned for several visits and became comfortable in our office. During each encounter we were building a relationship while alleviating her suffering, along with the hospital mental health treatments and medications.
The day of reckoning arrived when I extracted all her remaining teeth and inserted the new dentures. The results were beyond her wildest dreams. The dentures not only fit well but gave her a beautiful smile.
The next time Jane came into our office, she walked with radiant grace. Her hair was styled, her eyes bright, chin lifted with pride and her face revealed a natural inner light.
A few months later, the psychiatrist sought me out at a staff meeting. He reported that Jane’s dentures had drastically reduced her hospital stay by several weeks, and lifted her self-esteem to a new height that no mental science could measure.
Our work was done.
© 2009 Patrick J Foy, DDS
By Patrick J. Foy, DDS
“People are like stained-glass windows.
They sparkle and shine when the sun is out,
but when the darkness sets in their
true beauty is revealed only
if there is light from within.”
~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
A bush of kinky dishwater-blonde hair masked the woman’s face with total disarray as she trembled like a newly-trapped animal. She dropped her head, trying to hide a face scaled with white patches and randomly sliced with reddened, shallow incisions. She glared at her feet with empty sullen eyes. Cat-scratched hands shook, clasping open and closed. In contrast, the drab-green, oversized hospital gown she wore carried a freshly-laundered, light fragrance.
Jane’s medical chart revealed that she was a middle-aged woman who had been found homeless in a back alley of downtown Minneapolis. She was dirty and cold, incapable of responding to simple questions, mumbling in a state of catatonic depression. After being taken to the E. R. for psychological evaluation, she was admitted to Station #22 where they attended to her basic needs.
Medication and electro-shock therapy soon re-fired her conscious state and brought on the agonizing dental pain caused from long neglect and an abusive boyfriend.
Before dealing with it, we had to work on stranger-anxiety as with a small child or any frightened creature.
Upon entering the room, to respect her personal space, I moved to the foot of the dental chair until she reached a state of acceptance.
“Jane, I appreciate that you’re a little nervous. I was deathly afraid of the dentist as a teenager. Your chart indicates that you have been having some tooth pain?” She nodded and cupped her jaw.
“Does the lower-left side hurt today?” She nodded again. “Can you point at which tooth is hurting you?” Her body shuddered as she opened her mouth and pointed to the back. From a distance, I could see her hollow, brown molars on red, swollen gums.
Sensing humiliation, I said, “My mother lost her teeth when she was twenty-seven and my father lost his at fifty. Both were good people.” She stopped writhing and for the first time relaxed with a calm that appeared to be trust.
We took a Panorex, a full x-ray of her upper and lower jaw, which showed that only two teeth were salvageable. Over the long term, they, too, would be of little value.
.
I gently explained that most of her teeth were beyond repair, but today we would attempt to relieve her pain. We discussed options for short and long-term future care, and she asked excellent questions. Later, she told us that she’d worked as a dental-lab technician.
In preparation for complete upper and lower immediate dentures, Jane returned for several visits and became comfortable in our office. During each encounter we were building a relationship while alleviating her suffering, along with the hospital mental health treatments and medications.
The day of reckoning arrived when I extracted all her remaining teeth and inserted the new dentures. The results were beyond her wildest dreams. The dentures not only fit well but gave her a beautiful smile.
The next time Jane came into our office, she walked with radiant grace. Her hair was styled, her eyes bright, chin lifted with pride and her face revealed a natural inner light.
A few months later, the psychiatrist sought me out at a staff meeting. He reported that Jane’s dentures had drastically reduced her hospital stay by several weeks, and lifted her self-esteem to a new height that no mental science could measure.
Our work was done.
© 2009 Patrick J Foy, DDS
Friday, January 15, 2010
HAITIAN DENTIST
“Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment.” Rita Mae Brown
Destiny serendipitously pushed me onto an empty stool for lunch, as I sat down the lady next to me began to chuckle at my expense. It was a hurried sports bar and grill on an unusually steamy hot fall day in San Francisco. She appeared to be a petite Hispanic in her mid-thirties with gold-rimmed glasses with an ADA “Dentist” name tag from The American Dental Association’s annual meeting. “You don’t know what you just did” she giggled. “What” I asked.” “You see that line of people. All those people have been waiting in line to order food and after they get their food they wait and look for a seat. You just walked in, sat down and ordered with out waiting in line.” “I came from the hotel.” I was pointing at the back door. “I didn’t mean to cut in line, but I thought if there was an empty stool available, then there would be nothing wrong with me sitting down. So, I guess I am with you today.” I chuckle.
She had already received her food order and was eating as we curiously continued our conversation. She was from Haiti and I was from Minnesota. She was here for the convention to improve her dental education, see what’s new in dentistry and escape. We mutually shared our ignorance’s of each other geography. We both had misconceptions of each others worlds, cultures, and life styles. I must admit I was a bit arrogant about my United States’ training and my perceived prosperous quality of life. I attempted to get a flavor of her world by asking a ton of questions and she likewise was curios about life in a colder climate. Like most things in life we shared more commonalities than differences. We talked on and on describing and comparing our strange worlds.
She shared that she was afraid to go back home after the convention. There was an epidemic of murders that were occurring in her country. The servants of the wealthy were killing their bosses and absconding with their processions. The current government was unstable and the police were infiltrated with corruption. She said that she has several domestic servants, for example, she does not own a wash machine and clothes dryer at home. If she did have automated appliances at home she would be putting several people out of work. The poverty was so great that they employ people to do all kinds of menial domestic work.
Her family wealth was from a family owned rum distillery. It had recently lost its profitability, but with increase in popularity of rum in the Caribbean region the family was trying to re-invest in the distillery. Her family was able to afford her advanced education. She had lived a privileged life in an uncertain part of the world. Her practice was not that much different than mine. She was in a solo practice in a metropolitan area and she worked 34 hours a week.
I was aware of the extreme poverty, aids epidemic and rampant poor healthcare services so I asked her “What type dental care do you do for the poor?” She abruptly answered “I do not do any dentistry unless I get paid.” As she said this I was stunned; “How callused she seemed to her own people”. The fact that she didn’t seem to care about the poor was not how I was raised. I didn’t have a very good poker face. I must have been looking down my nose at her, she sensed my judgment.
She immediately replied” You do not understand, as a professional woman, I advocate for women rights in Haiti. Women are second class citizens in Haiti. I feel it is a better use of my time and talents in this area. I hope to make a bigger impact in my country as an advocate for women than trying to solve every little dental problem.” I was handed my smugness with her revelation. I had no right to judge her. My values, in my world did not make sense in her world.
Altruism is personal. PATRICK J FOY, DDS
Destiny serendipitously pushed me onto an empty stool for lunch, as I sat down the lady next to me began to chuckle at my expense. It was a hurried sports bar and grill on an unusually steamy hot fall day in San Francisco. She appeared to be a petite Hispanic in her mid-thirties with gold-rimmed glasses with an ADA “Dentist” name tag from The American Dental Association’s annual meeting. “You don’t know what you just did” she giggled. “What” I asked.” “You see that line of people. All those people have been waiting in line to order food and after they get their food they wait and look for a seat. You just walked in, sat down and ordered with out waiting in line.” “I came from the hotel.” I was pointing at the back door. “I didn’t mean to cut in line, but I thought if there was an empty stool available, then there would be nothing wrong with me sitting down. So, I guess I am with you today.” I chuckle.
She had already received her food order and was eating as we curiously continued our conversation. She was from Haiti and I was from Minnesota. She was here for the convention to improve her dental education, see what’s new in dentistry and escape. We mutually shared our ignorance’s of each other geography. We both had misconceptions of each others worlds, cultures, and life styles. I must admit I was a bit arrogant about my United States’ training and my perceived prosperous quality of life. I attempted to get a flavor of her world by asking a ton of questions and she likewise was curios about life in a colder climate. Like most things in life we shared more commonalities than differences. We talked on and on describing and comparing our strange worlds.
She shared that she was afraid to go back home after the convention. There was an epidemic of murders that were occurring in her country. The servants of the wealthy were killing their bosses and absconding with their processions. The current government was unstable and the police were infiltrated with corruption. She said that she has several domestic servants, for example, she does not own a wash machine and clothes dryer at home. If she did have automated appliances at home she would be putting several people out of work. The poverty was so great that they employ people to do all kinds of menial domestic work.
Her family wealth was from a family owned rum distillery. It had recently lost its profitability, but with increase in popularity of rum in the Caribbean region the family was trying to re-invest in the distillery. Her family was able to afford her advanced education. She had lived a privileged life in an uncertain part of the world. Her practice was not that much different than mine. She was in a solo practice in a metropolitan area and she worked 34 hours a week.
I was aware of the extreme poverty, aids epidemic and rampant poor healthcare services so I asked her “What type dental care do you do for the poor?” She abruptly answered “I do not do any dentistry unless I get paid.” As she said this I was stunned; “How callused she seemed to her own people”. The fact that she didn’t seem to care about the poor was not how I was raised. I didn’t have a very good poker face. I must have been looking down my nose at her, she sensed my judgment.
She immediately replied” You do not understand, as a professional woman, I advocate for women rights in Haiti. Women are second class citizens in Haiti. I feel it is a better use of my time and talents in this area. I hope to make a bigger impact in my country as an advocate for women than trying to solve every little dental problem.” I was handed my smugness with her revelation. I had no right to judge her. My values, in my world did not make sense in her world.
Altruism is personal. PATRICK J FOY, DDS
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