For eighteen years now, I’ve been going to the same dentist at a small private clinic. His name is Boris.
Borya is a very positive guy, about my age. He charges reasonable prices for longtime clients, and he knows my teeth better than I do myself—his fillings last a long time, what more could you want?
One day, unexpectedly, I felt pain in one of my teeth, especially one in particular…
I called Borya:
— Hi, Boris, can you talk?
— Hi, well, sort of…
— I want to come to you for a tooth.
— …
— Why are you silent? When’s best?
— You know, I probably won’t be able to, but I can give you the number of another doctor from our clinic—you should remember him, a gray-haired guy, he’s very good too and will do just as well as me. Sorry, I can’t talk now…
— Okay, thanks, Boris, I’ll wait for the number.
Half an hour later, I got a text with the name and number of another doctor. I even dialed the number but then changed my mind and hung up. After all—why should I go to some stranger when I’m used to Borya? No, I wouldn’t go to another doctor; I’ll wait out Boris’s days off, weddings, or whatever he’s got going on. Thank God, my tooth agreed with this decision—it got scared of the unknown gray-haired doctor, hid, and completely stopped hurting.
I called Borya again:
— Hello, it’s me again. Maybe I’ll wait for you? I don’t really want to see another doctor. Why change when you’re still alive?
There was a strange pause; I started blowing into the phone and making noises, but Boris just breathed heavily and was silent. Finally, he answered:
— Are you serious, you really want to wait for me?
— Yeah, why not?
— Better not, it might be a long wait—maybe a month, maybe two. Don’t make it up, call the other doctor I gave you.
But for some reason, I felt Boris wanted me more than anything to wait for him. So I firmly replied:
— No, I’ll wait somehow. By the way, where are you?
— Yeah, I had to leave for something. So, you really want to wait for me?
— I said I’m only waiting for you. Don’t worry, I won’t die.
— Then call me in about three weeks, or better yet, four.
Exactly a month later, the tooth and I called Boris again. He suggested the other doctor again, I refused again, and we agreed to talk again in a month… Five whole months passed. I started losing patience and getting mad at my stubbornness, and the tooth hinted about seeing the other doctor. After all, where was he hiding so long? If I had known it would take this long, I would have given up on Boris long ago. What an indecisive man he is.
Suddenly, Boris called himself:
— Hi. Are you still waiting for me?
— Yeah, and it’s not just me—my poor tooth too…
— Can you come tomorrow at 10 pm?
— Ten? Why so late? Your clinic closes at seven.
— Nobody will disturb us then. Can you make it?
— Okay, ten it is.
The next evening, when I was stuck in traffic halfway to the clinic, Boris called. He apologized at length, made some ridiculous excuses, and asked to move everything to the next evening. I don’t know why, but I didn’t get angry—I just agreed and started looking for a place to turn around.
Finally, the awaited evening came. Boris greeted me looking thinner but as upbeat as always. We walked through empty rooms between chairs and displays, and for some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t really a patient, and he wasn’t really a dentist. It felt like we were two amateur burglars wandering around wherever we happened to be. I even started whispering.
Boris sat me down in the chair, leaned over me like usual, and began poking around my head with his shiny metal tools and buzzers. Everything was as usual, except his forehead was sweatier than normal, and his glasses were fogged up. Finally, he finished and said matter-of-factly:
— Bite down. Is the filling bothering you?
— No, all good, thanks. How much do I owe you?
Because of his gauze mask, I didn’t notice at first that Boris was crying.
When I asked, “What’s wrong?” he burst into tears like a little boy but soon pulled himself together and said:
— No need for any money. I’m ready to pay you anything—for waiting for me.
When you called me that time, I didn’t tell you, but I’d just come out of anesthesia. I had a stroke. The entire left side of me was paralyzed. No one believed I’d even get out of bed, much less return to work. Even my wife didn’t believe it.
But I told everyone: “Screw you all, I have a patient, and he’s waiting for me.”
From morning till night, I worked out on machines, thinking of you every day, hoping, “If only he waits for me, if only he waits.”
Yesterday, I got scared—I didn’t know if I could do it with my first patient. Would my left hand mess up? Believe it or not, my teeth were chattering with fear. But I’m a doctor, a doctor, a real dentist. I’ll call my wife. Hooray!
Boris’s wild “Hooray!” made the glass jars on the shelves ring with a crystal chime…
