Some of my more faithful readers may have read my first episode of “adventures at the dentist’s office”. This is a regular, recurring experience for many of us, with the possible exception of a person I knew back in my working life who was missing most of his front teeth and spoke mostly in whistling sounds and punctuating snorts. Anyhow, I had a “routine cleaning” set up this week. (Actually, I’d rescheduled to NAC – next available cancellation, but that’s unimportant. It seems that many others view this experience as positively as I do.) Back in my younger years, the cleaning took at the outside about a half hour. You’d go in, hop in the chair, the hygienist would poke around for a while with those sharp spiky tools. They have an assortment that are curved and bent in a variety of angles, so it looks like a miniature version of torture chambers deep within the castle. Then they’d get that super-powered toothbrush with a paste they’d mixed up that was a combination of mint and kerosene. The actual dentist would do a quick check, a couple of x-rays, and you were out the door until next time. Occasionally, you’d hear the dreaded “you have a couple of cavities that need to be filled”. That always stopped me in my tracks, because I couldn’t stand the smell of the drill. It wasn’t really that painful, but the smell was like burning leaves. It would drift up from the mouth to permeate the room. I gave thought once, when I was about twelve, to yelling “fire – everybody out!” but our dentist, a fine gentleman with the personality of a brick, didn’t look like he’d be having it. I’m digressing once again, so back on track. The cleaning would take a half hour and I’d be free at last for a few months. We as I recall had this done every six months or until my mother remembered, whichever came last.
On to my latest visit to the chamber of horrors. Where for most of the world computers have added speed and efficiency, at the dentist’s office, they add pounds, layers, and hours. A screen pops up, multicolored and looking like a diagram of defense installations the Middle East. We have to check every box, review the extensive, and I do mean extensive notes from the last visit. Then we have to reshoot x-rays, because apparently my teeth have “shifted” in six months. Really? I didn’t feel a thing. An impressive array of new photos appear on the screen, which we examine minutely. Now we’re ready to begin the cleaning. Out come the tools of torture. The hygienist picks, scrapes, and scratches to her heart’s content. Anything even remotely sensitive become focal points. Those are jabbed at and scraped repeatedly. At some point as my eyes were welling up, she asked, “does that hurt?” She’s so perceptive. Next comes something that sprays water and edges its way along the outline of the tooth, kind of like one of those vessels used to plot underwater caves. I guess it was doing whatever it’s supposed to – cleaning out subterranean caves – rather painlessly, except that the drainage devise curling over the lower lip – you know that snake thing that makes a pleasant hissing sound, wasn’t quite keeping up with the water flow.
Now we’re to the part I remember so fondly from childhood. The super toothbrush does its work. Remember that wonderful feeling of smoothness your teeth have after they’ve been briskly buffed? Yep – there it is. The hygienist then takes out the floss and drags that between the teeth. I always love this. She tells me “there’s a bit of bleeding”. Well, dah! The floss has a razor-sharp edge that you just slid through like a butcher’s knife. I’m surprised my gums haven’t been cut to bits.
All set to go, right? Wrong. We review the x-rays, the surveillance tapes from when I arrived, and one or two reruns of “Leave It To Beaver” at the dentist. Back out come the pokers and we revisit the areas that were intensely painful the first time around. We hit those again because, apparently, not enough scraping was done the first time. If I may be so bold as to inquire, when did a routine cleaning take on the intensity of urgent care or the ER? At what point did the dental profession decide they needed to run a full battery of medical tests, like checking my blood pressure? Was it as the supercollider brush began its work and someone passed out? Someone saw the poker shaped like a jousting spike and fainted dead away? I was informed that my files indicated I’d been designated as “anxious”. You’re kidding, right? Who wouldn’t be after an hour of x-rays followed by a session of picking and scratching that would have reduced Spartacus to a drooling mess? Anxious? They should be pleasantly surprised that I came back. And why, if I may continue on this path, do they need to know all of the medications I take? Is something liable to interact badly with mouthwash? Maybe that should be in all the mouthwash commercials. “Side effects could include anxiety, increased blood pressure, inaccurate spitting, and an extreme aversion to latex gloves.”
As I mentioned in my first warmly received critique of the dentist’s office, these nice people are just a bit over the top about teeth. I suppose they would be. I should really be brushing a minimum of two to three times a day, after each meal, and perhaps when I get up in the night to pee. Apparently those rotary brushes that I get at the grocery store for about $7 are inadequate. I should purchase the $40, electric turbo unit – which they coincidently sell right there for same price as the online places where we all stock up on dental products. I should also buy a water pik, because that’s so much better than flossing. Those are only $70, and again sold conveniently at the billing counter / gift shop. Here’s the part I really liked. She recommended cleanings every three months rather than going six, because my dental insurance would pay for it, and “why not take advantage of that?” I refrained from telling her that, contrary to her entire belief system, for most everyone, visits to the dentist are not something to which we look forward. It takes us at least six months to forget how unpleasant the last appointment was. So, an hour and a half later, she accompanied me (actually, marched me up) to the scheduling desk / checkout counter to set up my next series of appointments. In a touch of the ironic, the next available appointment is almost six months out. I’m thinking, . . . . yes, God smiled on me.
I'm Thinking...No! 