by Melody Bowen
I have the greatest dentist in the world. I know, I know, that's an odd statement. Nobody likes seeing the dentist. I never liked seeing the dentist either, until I found Mr. Perfect Dentist. Mr. PD is kind, handsome, gentle with the dental implements, about my age, and he has beautiful oh-so-white teeth and a fantastic I'm-such-a-good-guy smile (which of course makes me think that he must know what he's doing!). I've been so pleased with Mr. PD for the last couple of years that I had stopped being nervous about dental appointments.
Unfortunately, Mr. PD apparently hired a new hygienist, who was assigned to clean my teeth this morning. Let's call her Ms. Ratchett. Ms. Ratchett sat me down in the chair, picked up one of those small metal hook-like doohickies (never, ever a good thing) and began with the scraping.
Except she did very little scraping of my teeth. Mostly she just poked me in the gums. Hard. It went something like this: scrape, poke, poke, scrape, poke, poke, prod, poke, poke. Poke, poke, poke, poke, poke. After the second time she poked me hard enough to make me jump straight up and throw my hands in the air, she apologized (sort of), and said, "I think we have some sensitive areas here." (Hmm...I don't know... d'ya *think*????)
She told me that if I didn't floss every single night that the sensitivity would get worse. I resisted the temptation to tell her that I already floss religiously (you know, Easter, Christmas, Rosh Hashana -- hee hee -- [sorry, I stole that joke from Ellen Degeneres]). What I *did* tell her, though, was that my teeth really only feel sensitive when someone attempts to stab me in the brain by way of my gums with small metal hook-like instruments of torture. (Which is true!) She finally said that "next time" she'd use the plastic implement instead of the metal one to make it more comfortable. My question is: Why not *always* use the damned plastic instrument if it is available? Why even *bother* with the small metal hooklike instrument of torture? (It's like the doctor giving you six shots in the bootie for something that he could easily take care of by prescribing a single pill. It's just sadistic!)
At any rate, Mr. PD finally came in at the end of the appointment. Ms. Ratchett told him I had "some sensitivity", and he jokingly said, "Are you allergic to the dentist?" Before I could answer, Ms. R said, "I think she's just allergic to the hygienist," and giggled nervously. I didn't speak. I just crinkled my forehead and gave Mr. PD the I-don't-like-your-new-hygienist look, an every-so-pouty look that said "why did you leave me here with this crazy, sadistic instrument-of-torture-wielding chick?" After a brief-and-mildly-uncomfortable silence, Mr. PD grinned, gave my gums a quick gander, said everything looked great overall -- no cavities, woohoo! -- and left me with Ms. Ratchett again. (Sigh.)
Ms. R finally sent me on my way with a goodie bag filled with samples of mouthwash, toothpaste, dental floss, a nice new toothbrush, some prescription fluoride, and a flossing device thingie that looks remarkably like one of those small metal hook-like instruments of torture, but is in fact made of plastic (as all those things should be). And, quite frankly, the goodie bag from was the only thing that kept me from finding a dental-hygienist-lookalike voodoo doll that I could stab repeatedly in the gums. (Hey, I like getting a goodie bag. I'll forgive lots of things for a goodie bag. Even sadistic dental hygienists. Tee hee.)
Note to self: Add to one's list of things to do: Floss, floss, floss, floss, floss. Stop flossing once a day, and start flossing twice a day. No, three times a day. No, no. Floss every single time one eats anything. Anything. Floss all the live-long day. No, no, I mean *all* the live-long day. Whatever it takes to *not* give Ms. Ratchett another shot at poking repeatedly at one's gums.