Disaster

At a dinner once, with friends who included a reporter, our conversation turned into a Burmese joke. 

A man with toothache goes overseas to see a dentist. "Don't you have dentists back in Burma?" the dentist asks. 

"Of course," the man replies, "We're just not allowed to open our mouths."

It's no secret that today many of us feel that it's harder to open our mouths and to foster a supportive environment when we need it most. 

This month, I heard a dentist story that I'll never forget. That's from Rebecca Makkai's novel The Great Believers. A page turner about the early AIDS crisis in the mid-80s. 

At that time, there was no effective medication except a palliative drug known as AZT for the group of gay men who were grappling with the deadly disease in Chicago. One by one, they died when the doctor had no choice but to start hospice, taking off the medication like pentamidine and amphoterrible. One day, a man named Julian was packing for his flight to Puerto Rico, after being tested and told his positive ELISA results. Devastated, Julian picked up a white trapezoidal dental floss container and held it in his palm. He said, "Why do I have this? No, really, why did I pack this? I'm never flossing again."

"Sure you are," Julian's friend hoped to encourage him.

"I'm telling you that I have decided not to. Like, right now. I've hated it my whole life, and what's gonna happen to my gums in the next six months?"

"You've got much longer than that."

"You think any dentist is even treating me again? I've got no dentist to yell at me! I'm never going in for another cleaning!"

I will never forget this sad story about Julian. Few things are harder than defining the word stigma, and few things are easier than spotting stigmatisation when it has happened.