As
she is leaning over one of our patients for that day, the dentist remarks to
me, “Nobody likes to go the dentist.” I nod in agreement, as I look up from
sterilizing the already used equipment. My gaze ends up at the slowly dwindling
line of waiting patients. It's true: nobody looks like they’re enjoying
themselves. A few teenage girls are nervously laughing and talking among
themselves, but that will surely stop when they get closer to the front of the
line. We are in a small village on the northeastern side of Nicaragua. A local
dentist from the Pacific Coast and I are performing the first dental clinic
that this village can remember.
We have decided to solely concentrate on extracting
teeth that are causing pain. We figured that would lessen the workload some.
I'm sure it did, but we are set to start on our 20th patient, and a
lot more are still waiting. We work two patients at a time to maximize the
dentist’s time, since the anesthesia takes 5-10 minutes to take effect. While
the dentist starts working on one patient, I call out for the next person in
line. She is a little girl, maybe eight years old. She's wearing a slightly
torn, but well cared for, dress. She approaches the chair timidly, but bravely.
I ask for her name and gesture for her to sit down. She then says to me in a
scared voice, ”I'm really afraid — and it (her tooth) really hurts.”
Immediately, my heart goes out to this brave
young girl, who is making her first trip to the dentist alone. I try to
reassure her by telling her the story of when I had to go to the dentist
because I knocked a tooth out playing football. She laughs when I tell her it
was because I ran into the field goal post. The anesthesia is now ready, and
the dentist administers it. While the extraction is taking place, I hold her
hand and try to distract her by pointing out things that are in her gaze. The
tooth comes out fairly easily, and she gladly puts it in her pocket for a
keepsake. As our numb, but happy, patient leaves for home, it dawns on me that
we just experienced a great snapshot of humanitarian work.
That snapshot is of a small dental clinic in a
secluded village in one of the poorest countries in Latin America. Zoom in and
you will see that the dentist is a Spanish girl who lives on the opposite coast
of Nicaragua. She volunteered her time to help her fellow citizens. Zoom way,
way out and you will discover that her plane ticket to the Atlantic Coast was
purchased by a man from Louisiana — and some of the instruments she used were donated
by an American man doing water projects around the region. At the edge of the
frame and a little blurry, I see myself. And I realize that I would not be in this picture at all if not for the
hundreds of Wings of Hope volunteers who sacrifice their time and money to make
possible something so simple, yet so monumental, as pulling out a little girl’s
tooth. As this picture takes shape in my head, my mind’s eye brings my role in
all of this into focus. I do whatever is left — from flying the plane, to
sterilizing the dentist’s tools, to holding the hand of a scared little girl.
Most of the people we help are just like that
little girl. They are suffering, and they are afraid. They probably will never understand
all the work and coordination it took to bring them relieving care. But, in
reality, pulling out one little girl’s tooth takes hundreds of people around
the world — most of whom will never cross paths with me or the dentist or the
little girl — working together toward a common goal: to relieve the suffering
of those born into extremely poor and difficult situations.
It may take a village to raise a child, but my work has
shown me that it can take a world to heal a toothache. And that is a picture
that makes me smile.
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