DAVINA'S STORY, PART 1.

Davina's Story, Part 1.

(The Dangers of Dentistry)

"Raanan, it's time to go back to the dentist. Dr. Rosenthal hasn't seen you in two years. Your time has come."

"But, mom! I don't want to go! Can't we go to another dentist?"

"No."

"Then I guess I'm not going..."

"Then I guess you're not."

This was a typical conversation between my mother and I as a child. My first experience with the dentist was rather traumatic and I had no intentions of returning to the scene of the crime. Dr. Rosenthal, our family dentist, was an upstanding member of our community. Our entire synagogue seemed to be patients of Dr. Rosenthal's. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish community, sequestered within a town. We only conversed with fellow members of the cloth. Business was conducted with members of our religious community, first and foremost. We still shopped and took business to non-Jewish and non-religious forums, but only when we were out of options within our synagogue.

There was a strong theme of "keeping it within our community". My father had his own business and needed support from within the community. We were constantly instructed to support the "parnasa" of each and every member of our community, whenever able. "Parnasa", a Hebrew word most easily translated as "one's livelihood", has such a stronger connotation than just a job or career. It is in essence – as translated – one's livelihood, always heavily stressed when told to support our fellow Jews. The possibility of seeing another dentist was unfathomable. No other option was ever on the table. As Jews, we were taught that it was our responsibility to support fellow members of the cloth. This for surely included keeping business within our community. From doctors to grocers, most everything was kept within our community. My clothing, when not hand-me-downs, were purchased in the basement of an Orthodox woman's home. If you looked closely enough, you’d find a few mice running rampant while trying on a pair of Jewish garb slacks. We existed within a world contained from gentile outsiders. It was a world where things were "kept within the family", or the community for that matter...

Dr. Rosenthal and his wife Bertha had two children: Seth and Davina. Seth was a year younger than me, Davina a year older. They attended the same Jewish day school as I did and were members of the same synagogue. Our parents were friendly and I spent time with both Seth and Davina. Dr. Rosenthal was always a shy man, standing feebly behind his wife Bertha who had a personality large enough to outshine anybody. Bertha was a towering woman with an inner anger and rage that could only be matched by my own mother. I was always somewhat fearful of Bertha, or rather Mrs. Rosenthal, but the Doctor never seemed to phase me. This all changed during my first dental appointment with Dr. Rosenthal.

Before I go into the messy details of my first dental experience, let me supply a little further backstory on the Rosenthal family. Seth, being a year younger than me and a boy, had little in common with me. I wasn't very interested in Seth's time. Davina, on the other hand, was a friend from very early on. I always got along famously with girls as a youngster, and while my parents seemed to find no issue with this, the Orthodox community around us did not agree. Boys and girls were different and I needed to know my place.

Davina was a bit of a tomboy and Bertha was never going to accept this. Having money, as the dentist of our synagogue, the Rosenthals always had bright and shiny new things. Bertha did everything in her power to make Davina the prettiest girl within our community. Davina always had the nicest clothes, toys, and accessories. Around the age of 8 or 9, Davina began to require eye-glasses. Due to the aesthetic barriers that Bertha felt this opened Davina up to, she flew her daughter down to Florida to be fitted for contacts. This was a time before young children wore contacts. Bertha was convinced that she would make Davina most desirable within our community. For this same reason, Bertha did not like the idea of my spending time with Davina. 

I would often be invited over for play-dates with the Rosenthal children. Every time, I would find myself playing with Barbies and Polly Pockets in Davina's room with her. Just about every time this occurred, Bertha would storm into Davina's bedroom, discovering our play time. "You were not invited over to play with Davina! You are here to play with Seth!" I would then be escorted into Seth's room, where we would awkwardly share space and time until my mother arrived to pick me up. This constant divide only made it less likely for me to enjoy spending time there. As time drug on, I began to decline invitations to the Rosenthal house. When I was attending synagogue or school, I would find common ground and fun with Davina, but I always knew that Bertha would never allow the friendship.

As Davina was growing into quite the tomboy, Bertha made it her personal mission from God to shift this. The irony of this is that I was most probably a calming feminine influence. If anything, it would have been most possible to get Davina in touch with her inner woman with me by her side. 

One year, while I was still involved in playtime at the Rosenthals, my birthday had come around. As a birthday gift from the Rosenthals, I was gifted a VHS copy of 'Batman', the Tim Burton classic with Michael Keaton playing the bat. As I unwrapped my gift, I read the card: "From your friend Seth". There was no placement of Davina – my actual friend – on the gift anywhere. Being the obnoxious little kid that I was, I reacted in a very inappropriate manner to my gift. "I don't like it. I didn't want this." Had I said this to my mother, she most probably would have slapped me across the face and taken my gift away with zero promise of anything in the future. The Rosenthals, being accustomed to a different world of spoiling their children, offered we go to 'Toys R Us' and pick out another gift for me. I eagerly accepted, knowing my mother would have told me to accept the gift and shut my “fucking mouth”. Dr. Rosenthal, Bertha, Davina, Seth, and I jumped into their family van and left for 'Toys R Us'. My gift had been valued at twenty-dollars at the time. I was informed that I could spend up to twenty-dollars on a gift of my choosing. Almost immediately, we all split up. Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha slowly perused the toy paradise, while the children shopped. Seth went off on his own to look at toy trucks and whatever else little boys seem to like.

Davina and I paired up and ended up in the Barbie aisle. I had Barbies at home and wasn't sure I needed another that day. This is not to say you can ever have enough Barbies. For a young gay, Barbies are about as quintessential as shoes. Ask any gay man and they will tell you: “You can never have enough shoes.” At the time, however, I had developed an additional love of 'Polly Pocket'. I was always a fan of figurines and miniature toys. 'Polly Pocket' was a miniature girl's toy that took form in the shape of a woman's make-up compact. Upon opening the compact, there was an ultra-feminine world of miniature toys inside. I was fascinated by these toys and they were definitely a hot fad of the moment. Think 'My little Pony'. I picked out a compact of about twenty dollars’ value, while Davina picked out a luxurious hundred-dollar set that was purchased freely for her. I remember a huge sense of jealousy and envy at the time, wishing my parents would shower me with gifts the way that Davina was. Never once had it occurred to me that things weren't as "peachy" inside Davina's world.

I was roughly 9 or 10 years old when I had my first dental appointment. This procedure was scheduled with Davina's father, our Synagogue’s dentist. I was not a fan of brushing my own teeth (at the time – I’ve since embraced the act) and my parents never seemed overly concerned. My parents have always had a talent for telling me what to do, but that is usually where it ends. I may be directed in a certain way, but an explanation and a visual with potential follow through has never been their style. So, when it came time to go to the dentist for my first visit, I didn't know what to expect. My mother brought me in to Dr. Rosenthal's office. The Rosenthals had a rather large house on a busy corner in our neighborhood. Where a garage may have once been, they had built a dental office that served for Dr. Rosenthal's practice. At the time, Dr. Rosenthal had two dental hygienists assisting him, while Bertha handled managing the practice. I sat down in the waiting room, unsure of what to expect. My mother chatted with Bertha and filled out my initial paperwork. Then it came time for my visit with the doctor. I was shown in to a small dental room by Bertha, no larger than my own closet at home. It was a claustrophobic, tight space. One of the dental hygienists came in and greeted me, helping to make me comfortable and prepared within my chair for the doctor's arrival. As I sat there waiting, I really didn't know what to expect. “Would this be painful?” “How long would I be here?” I had no idea. When I asked my parents, I was assured of Dr. Rosenthal's high credibility. My parents didn't offer much support past that as there was always a blind faith in anything connected to our synagogue and community. As Dr. Rosenthal walked into the room, I was instantly flooded with a feeling of discomfort. Dr. Rosenthal awkwardly and equally cold greeted me, asking how I was feeling. As a child I knew that he did not want to know. There was a condescending and obligatory tone to his greeting and I didn't feel supported or cared for. Instead, I felt quite uncomfortable. Dr. Rosenthal wanted to get this over with just as quickly as I did.

After a brazen and uncomfortable examination of my teeth, I sat there feeling as if I had been taken hostage. Dr. Rosenthal was moving his hands around within my mouth without the slightest care for the discomfort I was experiencing. He never once asked me if he was hurting me or whether this was comfortable. I was a non-entity; a part of his process, but not a patient. Struggling to feel comfortable, my opened mouth was strained. Today I can confidently tell you that I have an abnormal gag reflux. Sad for any ex-boyfriends of mine, I have never been one to deep-throat. Perhaps this was the earliest sign, but I can't even keep a shot of vodka down. Rather than ask if I was strained, Dr. Rosenthal began to grow frustrated with me, criticizing my inability to keep my mouth open. He quickly began taunting me, calling me a "spoiled baby". It was official: I did not like the dentist.

When it came time for ex-rays, I had reached an all-time high in my discomfort. I was not looking to keep my mouth open any longer and now I had to bite down on a heavy mouthpiece, with a weighted fabric apron over my chest. Having reached a heightened level of discomfort, I resisted. I couldn't keep my mouth shut with the plate inside, biting down. (As an aside, this was not the first time I was criticized for an inability to shut my mouth...) I began to grow impatient and he was unable to capture my impressions for an x-ray. Dr. Rosenthal had no patience for me and dismissed me for the day. I left upset and traumatized by the overwhelming experience. No one seemed to hold my hand or care for my discomfort. As I had learned well already, I was on my own in the world. Sure, my parents claimed to care, but I knew that my true feelings were mine and mine alone. I pleaded with them to never take me back there. Rather than offer a better experience with another dentist, they informed me that I would go back to Dr. Rosenthal when I was ready. Instead of looking for a better route to supply me with oral hygiene, it seemed better to just let my mouth go unseen. My parents were not supporting me, but rather momentarily pacifying me, by allowing me to skip the Dentist.

After this experience with the demon dentist of Cherry Hill, I began to keep a further distance from his kids. Bertha preferred I stay away from Davina, so there wasn't a huge effort to bring the children back together. Davina began to develop into a striking, rather beautiful girl. She was tall, slim, and very pretty. Davina was very athletic and seemed to grow very popular, while I was bullied and cast out by our community. We were not traveling in the same circles. I was a loser by our community's standards and Davina was quite the opposite. As I grew older and dealt with other obstacles, the Rosenthals became foreign to me. I would see them on occasion at synagogue, but that was where it ended. Our families were never very close and once I stopped spending time with their children, this only kept us further apart.

When I hit high school, I began to attend school with Davina again. She was still popular and I was not. Not a lot had changed, so we kept the deep-rooted distance from years before. We were friendly, but we were not friends. Again, Davina was athletic, well-liked, and incredibly studious, while I could barely complete my homework, let alone throw a ball. This was not a time when I fit in or felt comfortable within my own body, so the idea of a friendship with someone popular within our community was not a high possibility. Davina was also a year older and, at that time, the variance of a school grade made a world of difference.

In the tenth grade, I left that environment to attend a public high school. Given a sense of freedom from our community and the kids I grew up with, I saw a further distance. Within no time, I started to grow a bit more comfortable within myself and my dental issues began to have an effect on me. I had never really been to a dentist, outside the earlier trauma of being taunted by Dr, Rosenthal. Now, here I was – a teenager – without any dental record. I had constant pains within my mouth that had already been plaguing me for years. Refusing to go back to Dr. Rosenthal whenever the topic came up, my parents took that as a refusal to see any dentist. Dr. Rosenthal was the only dentist I was going to be seen by. The problem with this was that I had been horribly traumatized by the Dr.'s lack of patience when I was in his care. His abrasive and demeaning behavior made me fearful of the experience. That being said, by the tenth grade, I had already survived several abusive scenarios at the hands of many adults in my life. Par for the course, I guess, but I was more prepared for a bad dental experience, despite my fear and hesitation. I finally agreed to go to the dentist; Dr. Rosenthal to be exact.

It was a terrible experience, but I should have known. When I first arrived, I was greeted by Bertha who acted as if she was my biggest cheerleader. She had a way of intoxicating people with warmth and affection when she wanted to. It's a common trait that my own mother shares. One minute you can feel the wrath of a domineering rage-filled woman, the next moment you feel the deepest love and admiration. It is enough to screw with anyone's sense of stability and calm. At this time, it was fairly known that Bertha had chased away any and all assistance within her and her husband's dental practice. Bertha had a reputation for being difficult and it seems it had caught up with her. Dr. Rosenthal was now operating a dental practice with merely the assistance of his overbearing wife. The doctor was a shy, timid man by most people's accounts. I can see now that the dental chair is where he feels in control and clearly takes out his aggression on non-complying patients. Here Bertha was kind and sweet to me, so I went in optimistically despite my past experience.

Dr. Rosenthal hadn't changed, except for an obvious sense of being worn down. He seemed older and far worse than before, easily frustrated by any sudden movements or feelings of fear on my end. I lay in the chair feeling hostage to both Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha as they took my x-rays begrudgingly. Dr. Rosenthal criticized me, while Bertha was simultaneously raving about Davina and Seth to me. I was held captive with a man's hands in my mouth, while I was squirming in every possible direction. As I was being fed abuse by the hands of my dentist, his wife raved about their kids. It was more of a gloat coming from Bertha's tongue, as if she was informing me that her kids were far better off than I. Needless to say, it was unsettling. I hoped to be done with my appointment and leave on my way. There were a few problems with this plan, however. Firstly, Bertha couldn’t shut her mouth, proclaiming all the accolades and achievements of her two kids that I had zero involvement with. She was holding up much of the appointment to shove her children’s supposed accomplishments down my throat. Dr. Rosenthal was attempting to get his hands deeper into my mouth, while she kept moving around in both of our ways as her stories continued. By the end of the appointment, I was ready to leave forever. “I’ll wait another six years before I go to a dentist.” That was all I could think of as the appointment came to a close. Finally, I could leave. It wasn’t going to be this easy, it seemed, though. As it came to pass, I had multiple cavities and needed immediate work. I had fourteen cavities in six teeth. My mouth was host to a myriad of mess. 

Someone (me) should have been brushing their teeth daily, but no one seemed too concerned outside of Dr. Rosenthal and Bertha, who berated me with insults and criticism after discovering the disarray of my mouth. I rarely brushed my teeth and was now at my first ever dental appointment to be finished in entirety and I was about fifteen years old. Never should a trip to the dentist have gone this long, but my sense of fear kept me away from Dr. Rosenthal. And my parents’ sense of loyalty to our synagogue and beliefs kept me from basic hygienic care.

As it was now obvious that I would need multiple procedures, I felt a common feeling of my childhood: I was stuck. I had nowhere to go but here. My parents criticized my cavity count and vented their frustrations with the nominal dollar amount to fix my mouth. I felt shamed by both the dentist and now my parents. This was another situation where I would need to keep my mouth shut and obey orders. My mother and Bertha organized a schedule for me to get all of my necessary procedures performed. We began to meet weekly after the school day was complete. I would walk directly to the Rosenthal's house after school and wait for my turn. Bertha would greet me warmly and find a way to insert a domineering sense of judgment for the state of my teeth. I would be ushered into the chair that should have had my name inscribed on it for the incredible cumulative time spent there. Dr. Rosenthal would enter the room and greet me coldly as per usual. Bertha would be present for each procedure and they would all travel the same course. Dr. Rosenthal would be abrupt and critical of my abilities to keep my mouth wide open and sit completely still. As this was occurring, Bertha would gloat about her children, with an emphasis on Davina. Looking back, I now see it came from a place of insecurity on Bertha's hands. Davina was never good enough, whether it be for her tomboyish ways, optical handicaps, or choice of friends. Bertha needed Davina to fit into a certain mold and the more she spoke of her daughter this way, perhaps it began to feel true; at least for her.

As all of this transpiring, I found my gums meeting the end of a needle at the start of each procedure. While it hurt deeply to begin, my chronic visits began exciting due to that pain. I was never one to cut myself or inflict pain, but this horrible grouping of experiences seemed a bit more manageable with that initial pain of the needle. Like a drug addict, I became dependent on that touch of the needle. I craved it as I sat in the waiting room of the Rosenthal's converted garage.

These procedures continued for the next few years. It was not until my senior year that I felt a sense of freedom from the Rosenthals. When I was cleared for work completed, I vowed to stay away from that home forver. I had endured enough by the hands of Bertha and her husband; I was done. Here and there, over the years, I went in for check-ups, but I was not responsible to see the Dr. and his wife more than once a year or so.                                                    

Around the age of 21, I was living in Philadelphia with my older sister Sharona. At the time, we were both going through our own party world. Most of our wild nights were kept secret from our parents. There has always been a strong sense of judgment from both of my parents for any sense of partying, drinking, or drug use. My mother always carried a certain connotation with partying, describing those that party as "losers" and "lost souls". She would be damned if her own children turned out that way. For that reason, there was no way that we would share our sordid details with her.

One day, I began to have a pain in my mouth. It was a pain prior to that day, but a manageable pain as my first reaction has never been to go to the dentist. On this specific day, however, I woke up in unmanageable agony. I had to see a dentist and it seemed most obvious to go back to Dr. Rosenthal. Never once had it occurred to me to look for another dentist. At this point, it had been conditioned in me to help the Rosenthals' "parnasa" rather than worry about my own care. With that, I went in for my appointment. No longer did I fight the discomfort of Dr. Rosenthal's office. His bedside manner was terrible and Bertha would talk my ear off, but it felt so normal then. As I sat in the dental chair, Bertha began to gloat once more about Davina. She had just received her MBA in Business from a prestigious school in Israel and had now moved to Philadelphia, not unlike myself. I was now openly gay and our childhoods had played out. Bertha seemed to have changed her tune from years before. Now she wanted me to spend time with her daughter, Davina. I was resigned to decline the offer. Having the set of childhood experiences that I did, there didn’t seem a need to reopen such relationships. Additionally, I didn't need any secrets from my private life shared with my parents. I was smoking weed daily and it was something I didn't believe my parents could accept. What if one meeting with Davina translated back to my parents? No, thank you.

Bertha continued to practically beg for my friendship with her daughter. She was new to Philadelphia and fresh back in the states. Davina needed friends and it was my obligation, as a member of the synagogue. Luckily, I was no longer held down by the synagogue, living on my own and left to my own devices. I left the appointment promising to reach out to Davina, but without any sincere truth to my vow. A few weeks later, I had a follow up appointment with Dr. Rosenthal. Bertha steamrolled me for not reaching out to Davina and made me promise yet again that I would seek out time with her daughter. This was followed up by a phone call to my mother from Bertha, pressuring me to reach out to Davina. Well, that was another route to force my follow through. My parents still had a strong hold on me at the time and I begrudgingly agreed.

I reached out to Davina and planned to meet her for drinks in the Rittenhouse House Square area, where Sharona and I had lived at the time. We agreed to meet at the 'Irish Pub', a bar local to my apartment. I dragged Sharona, disinterested in going alone. Years of trauma and abuse from the bullying I received at the hands of my peers growing up made me nervous for this meeting. Despite Davina's absence from that group of bullies, she was friends with many of those kids and I was nervous. I also felt like I would be a terrible influence on her, just given the fact that I smoked weed regularly. I approached the meeting skeptically out of a feeling of obligation and force.

Sharona and I arrived at the bar to find Davina already seated on a barstool with a Corona in hand. We exchanged pleasantries and ordered drinks. As we chatted for a few minutes, it felt very forced. We didn’t seem to have anything in common outside our upbringings. All of a sudden, Davina opened up her clutch and pulled out a prescription bottle. "Time for a Vicodin. It really helps having a father that can write prescriptions." And with that, Davina popped two magic pills in her mouth and swallowed without the assistance of her beer. Davina was clearly as pro at this. She was potentially worse off than me and my sister when it came to partying ways. I knew as well as any that two Vicodin mixed with even one beer was a recipe for disaster. This one action helped to break down a barrier between my sister and I with Davina. It might sound trivial, but at 21 years old, it seemed viable to me at the time.

I guess there were more perks being the daughter of a dentist than one would think. While Davina drank herself to a foolish mess, I began to feel a sense of comfort. Bertha couldn’t know her precious Davina was such a partying mess, so my transgressions with weed would not be shared. That was the hope and felt on par with the evening. As the three of us settled into the evening and continued to throw back beers, Davina popped another pill. Was this girl for real? I couldn’t help but be surprised by the experience of this meeting. Never once did I expect Davina to be such a party hound. This was only the beginning for the mess that traveled alongside Davina and her sad story. A testament to bad parenting, I was in for a whirlwind to come… Stay tuned for Part 2…

Xoxo.

R.