Save the Last Dance for Me

Yesterday I saw one of my favorite (and most colorful) patients. HIPPA laws prevent me from telling you any identifying personal information about him, so let's just say his age rhymes with schmeighty four. In his first appointment with me he told me many things about his teeth, but also suddenly said, "I'll bet you have stinky feet."

I was a little taken aback, but he quickly added, "I was born with stinky feet and a snotty nose, and I've never been able to get rid of either one. I bet you haven't either."

I knew at that point that this guy was going to add a little character to each appointment.

A few appointments later he reached into his pocket and handed me a nail and a screw, with no explanation for either piece of hardware or why he wanted me to have them. (I might have already blogged about that, but I can't remember, and I'm too lazy to look back and find out. The Alzheimer's is really setting in quickly these days.)

I had my last appointment with him yesterday and apparently he came prepared to shock me once again. I thought we'd made it through the entire appointment unscathed, but as we were walking out, he suddenly turned and said, "Take me back to your cubicle, I have something to show you."

Terrified, I complied.

Back in the cubicle, he dropped one more bombshell, "Did you know I used to be a ballroom dancing instructor?"

Yep, you guessed it, I got a dance lesson in my cubicle at dental school. I learned the ChaCha and the Rumba. The instruction included a critique on the way I shake my hips during the moves. Blushing like a fool, I finally managed to finagle my way out of my dance instructors hand hold and usher him out the door.

Strangest moment in dental school? Check. Dancing the ChaCha with a schmeighty four year old.