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I think we squicked some readers out talking about dental implants, for which I'm sorry. Me, I'm fascinated by medical technology and procedures--not enough to do the heavy lifting of passing science classes and going to med school, but enough to ask questions and remember stuff. But the fact is that, unless you have a jones for medical neep or have tales of woe of your own to bring to the table, talking about bone regrowth or medical procedures is not everyone's piece of pie.
It is my piece of pie. When I give blood I'm fascinated by the technology with which they spin the platelets out of the red stuff and return the blood to me--all via the same needle, with an anticoagulant which causes a slight buzzing in my lips (totally normal, I'm told). I notice that they've got new gizmos for the finger-jab (they draw a tiny amount of blood to test for iron) and say "Hey, that's new since last time," and the tech starts to say "Yes, we got them in last month," and then looks at me curiously. Same thing when I get my teeth worked on: I've been getting advanced dental work since I was 11, and I'm something of a connoisseur of dental procedures and tech. I may be the only woman in the history of Roosevelt Hospital who whined because, in the middle of an emergency C-section, they wouldn't let me watch.
Of course it makes it more interesting (oh, hell: more fun) to talk about these things if you've got a story of your own, and the stomach to tell it. I begin to understand why some elderly folk spend so much time talking about their ailments. It's not only a chance to kvetch: it's interesting. And then you can tell the story of your own experience, and...
Mostly, rather than risking making the people around me ill, I content myself with reading Berton Roueché's collections of "Annals of Medicine" columns from the New Yorker, which I discovered when I was in seventh grade and still enjoy (they were written from the early '50s-'80s, and still have a slight flavor of What the World Was Like Then which adds to my enjoyment), and books like Gina Kolata's Flu, or Fiametta Rocco's The Miraculous Fever Tree, and watching--O! Guilty Pleasure--hospital shows on TV, even the crappy ones.
But if anyone wants to swap true tales of Dental Horror, I'll be over here in the corner with my teeth (or what's left of them).
It is my piece of pie. When I give blood I'm fascinated by the technology with which they spin the platelets out of the red stuff and return the blood to me--all via the same needle, with an anticoagulant which causes a slight buzzing in my lips (totally normal, I'm told). I notice that they've got new gizmos for the finger-jab (they draw a tiny amount of blood to test for iron) and say "Hey, that's new since last time," and the tech starts to say "Yes, we got them in last month," and then looks at me curiously. Same thing when I get my teeth worked on: I've been getting advanced dental work since I was 11, and I'm something of a connoisseur of dental procedures and tech. I may be the only woman in the history of Roosevelt Hospital who whined because, in the middle of an emergency C-section, they wouldn't let me watch.
Of course it makes it more interesting (oh, hell: more fun) to talk about these things if you've got a story of your own, and the stomach to tell it. I begin to understand why some elderly folk spend so much time talking about their ailments. It's not only a chance to kvetch: it's interesting. And then you can tell the story of your own experience, and...
Mostly, rather than risking making the people around me ill, I content myself with reading Berton Roueché's collections of "Annals of Medicine" columns from the New Yorker, which I discovered when I was in seventh grade and still enjoy (they were written from the early '50s-'80s, and still have a slight flavor of What the World Was Like Then which adds to my enjoyment), and books like Gina Kolata's Flu, or Fiametta Rocco's The Miraculous Fever Tree, and watching--O! Guilty Pleasure--hospital shows on TV, even the crappy ones.
But if anyone wants to swap true tales of Dental Horror, I'll be over here in the corner with my teeth (or what's left of them).