Sterile
Robert
E. Horseman, DDS
Ralph Waldo Emerson once revealed that "A foolish consistency is
the hobgoblin of little minds." Inasmuch as Emerson is considered the
leading exponent of American Transcendentalism, I feel that those of us who
understand transcendentalism and those of us who haven't a clue and couldn't
care less should pay attention here. Sharp eyes will discover that
"dental" is cryptically hidden in the word. As a firm proponent
of several avenues of dentalism, some of which transcend others, I think
Ralph was trying to tell us something about consistency, although comparing it
to a hobgoblin certainly dates this observation. The last recorded
sighting of a hobgoblin was in 1832 in Haversham, Massachusetts by one Felton
Bliesteft who awoke the next morning in a cemetery, sorely besotted.
But I digress. As a dentist I am committed, either by inclination or government
edict, to cleanliness and above all, sterility. Although I have never actually
seen any, I know there are vicious pathogens of every stripe lurking on every
surface, every crack and fissure and behind even the most unlikely places. I
pride myself on following all the barrier techniques to the letter, not wishing
to be the instrument of transmission nor the hapless victim of these crazed
viruses and bacteria rampant in the world today.
That's why, when I went into a restaurant recently, I did not think it a
foolish consistency to expect the same attention given to asepsis there as I
exercise in my office. This was an upscale eatery, somewhere between
Denny's and the Ritz-Carlton. Upon being seated, however, I got my first
inkling that the management and I were worlds apart in our concept of barrier
techniques. Just opposite my table was a young man preparing a table for waiting
guests. This was no spray/wipe, spray/wipe operation sanctified by the clean,
sweet smell of Lysol. This chap, using a rag issued to him sometime during
the Carter Administration, employed the single, looping swipe technique that
took in both the table top and the seats, leaving behind an iridescent sheen on
both. An instant later, he was back, laying out the silverware. To my
horror, he wore neither rubber gloves nor mask and the cutlery was not encased
in sterilization pouches as one could reasonably expect of things that would
shortly go into someone's actual mouth. He then set out the water glasses,
touching each with his bare hands and standing back to briefly survey his work
with satisfaction, headed for the kitchen. I followed him surreptitiously,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the sterile area where the food was prepared and
the dishes made ready. Shock upon shock! Not a single autoclave was visible, nor
did I discover any ultrasonic units cleaning up used utensils. Instead, ungloved
employees with heroic disregard for salsa and gravy- borne pathogens were
milling about and perspiring like sumo wrestlers on a 10K run. Wearing formerly
white t-shirts bearing the unmistakable evidence of home laundry, they were
busily engaged in touching everything in sight, including those areas that
itched.
There's more. When a waitress finally arrived, she confided to us "guys" (as in "Are you guys ready to order?") that her name was Tiffany and that she would be our server, at least until her break when she would bring around Sherry who would be our backup server. Tiffany then, without the benefit of gloves or suitable forceps, scooped up the bills and loose change off the table left by the previous occupants who, chances are, were the carriers of several diseases being currently considered for telethons. She then sashayed off to the kitchen to relay our order and to help touch things. In slightly less time than it would take to read the Iliad in the original Greek, Tiffany was back with our meal, which she had balanced neatly on both forearms, nearly obscuring her tattoo. I don't know why I did this, I knew better, but I ate the entire meal without getting a spore count, a lab report on the pathogens in the salad and a biopsy done on the meat course. Tiffany and Sherry finished their shifts and trotted off home wearing their uniforms with the multi-colored stains of the 4 major food groups. The cooks, dishwashers and busboys, all blissfully unaware of the seething sepsis they labored in and shared with their customers, sweated their way through another batch of orders while visions of minimum wage bonanzas danced in their heads. They will undoubtedly marry and have 2.1 mutant children. I, while waiting for the inevitable onset of some fatal and possibly inoperable disease, have had time before the paramedics arrive to ponder this: Dentists sometimes feel that the profession has been singled out for undue attention to our methodology and our ignorance and foot-dragging reluctance to face up to the fact that everything in our offices is a potential source of incurable pestilence. Just wait until the heat finally reaches the restaurant businesses. Hoo, boy! Just wait until that gloved, masked, full body-suited waitress brings the tab with the space for the gratuity and an even bigger one for "sterilization surcharge--$50.00!" Us "guys" may have to give up eating out altogether and consider eating at home, a sanctuary we share with several generations of germ families, but at least they're our germs.
Originally published in the Journal of the California Dental Association, 11/92.