24. Pain and Patience

My first visit to a dentist—at least that I can remember—was to a second floor walk-up office in Fosston Minnesota. I must have been six or seven, so it would have been 1948 or 49.

The chair was high and the drill—a cabled affair that looked like something out a horror movie—was loud. There was no Novocain, no laughing gas, just hang onto the dental chair arms as tight as you can and endure the sound and pain of the drilling and filling. (“You’ll brush your teeth now!” the lesson.)

I remember the sting of iodine on cuts, ice on sprains, and, as a teenage athlete, a kind of satisfaction in giving or taking a strong football hit or blocking the plate at home, taking a cleats up slide with my body.

Patience was what mother’s preached. Dinner would be ready in a half hour. It takes time to cook the Thanksgiving Turkey. We don’t open the Christmas presents until the dishes are done.

The system supported mothers. The store wouldn’t be open until Monday. You counted the days until the promised cereal box-top premiums and birthday cards came back slowly in the mail.

We waited in lines to get into ball games and theaters, even back into the classroom after fire drill. We waited—and watched—in a line for school shots. Some of those in front fainted or cried, and the big needles were sterilized between kids for us to see.

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We’re not much for pain or patience anymore. Pain pills are ubiquitous—leaving their own legacy of addiction. Most of us get by with ibuprofen and massage.

Stores and the Internet are open 24/7. We order anytime, get expedited one-day delivery, play video games till dawn, and get a Big Mac in the middle of the night.

Don’t expect us to stay home or keep our masks on until we get a handle on Covid-19!

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