How often do you brush and floss?
(This piece is definitely not meant to offend any dental hygienists or people who have serious interest in their gums. It’s tongue in bloody cheek.)
I assume I’m not the only one to have felt the sting of words on top of the physical pain inflicted by the dental hygienist. The question “how often do you brush and floss” is generally posed with a hint of disdain, implying, “You obviously aren’t doing it at all or, if you are, you are clearly incapable of the simplest of tasks.” It’s generally asked a few minutes into the cleaning - or as they like to call it, the scaling - long enough in for the one wielding the tools to have determined you are dentally challenged. Or so it feels.
I’m not afraid of the dentist. I have great teeth, presumably the legacy of the gallons of free milk I consumed on the dairy farm where I grew up. My last cavity was in 1975; other than my wisdom teeth, I’ve never had an extraction; no-one has ever tortured me with a root canal; and my teeth are still reasonably white. Yes, I’m lucky in the tooth department.
(There was a period when the direction my teeth grew was worrisome. Other children called me unkind names. With my mother’s careful negotiation, my father agreed to spring for upper level train-tracks. My father was of the view we should all suffer some kind of imperfection and clearly, the angle of my two front teeth was meant to be mine. Thanks, mom, for winning that one. I got braces. I have many other ways to demonstrate imperfection, trust me, dad.)
For nearly three decades I went to the same dentist. He provided exactly the kind of stability one wants from one’s care providers: he never upgraded his technology and maintained the same very efficient receptionist. For twenty years, the biggest drama at my dental appointments revolved around the megadose of antibiotic the good dentist forced me to consume before he’d see me because of a mitral valve prolapse - slight heart murmur - which created a risk (remote) that his mucking about in my mouth could make me bleed, an infection would enter my bloodstream which could land in my heart and kill me. I argued this was a precaution designed to protect him from liability, since no-one was worrying about me dying from an infection in my heart if my home flossing resulted in bleeding. Eventually the dental college dropped the requirement and the red warning label was removed from my chart. Dr. Da Costa and I resumed our purely friendly relations.
While he had a steady stream of young hygienists, all were pleasant enough and not prone to harassing me about tartar build-up. At one point, about 20 years ago, I did finally give in to their gentle admonishment and start daily flossing. They didn’t notice the difference, making me suspect the whole business as being a big conspiracy between hygienists and the floss-makers. I nearly quit the habit after receiving no accolades from the scalers but I’d gotten into a nightly groove.
I’m reaching that unfortunate age when my most important long-term relationships - hairdresser, doctor, dentist - are ending due to retirement. My dentist packed it in a year ago. I have now moved my mouth to a clinic within walking distance of my house and a practitioner 10 years younger than me. She’s great. No complaints. Her office staff however are annoying - they pepper me with texts (!) instead of email and sending me quality of service surveys following each appointment. I have asked them to remove my phone number from their system and use email only. We’ll work it out.
But the hygienist - ah, the hygienist. He’s another story. To be clear, last year, I had the usual approach from the young woman who was on the job then - the gentle chiding as she picked away at the obvious buildup.
This new guy - woah - a tyrant. Zero chair-side manner. No “hi, how are you? Do you live nearby?” Right into the X-rays and then the serious criticism. Based entirely on the x-rays - and by the way, no film in this joint - these were digital and immediate - he launched in with THE question: “How often do you brush and floss?” He’d jumped right to dentally challenged already.
“Brush morning and night; floss night.” I answered tersely. I was feeling ill-at-ease already, given I was sitting up close and personal with another human whom I don’t know and I was unmasked! I didn’t really need the judgment. The appointment went downhill from there. My gag reflex, normally pretty relaxed, was full-on, resulting in many false starts in his digging. His tone said by January I’d be walking around leaving a trail of pearly whites behind me, with gaping bloody holes in my mouth. BUT if I saw him many, many times between now and then, and made dental hygiene my full-time occupation, I MIGHT save one or two teeth. He dismissed me from the chair after 40 minutes. I left reeling. How could it be that just nine months ago, the previous hygienist didn’t find any of these dire gum conditions?
I returned two weeks later, this time ready for a discussion with this overzealous gum-obsessed automaton. He again got right to business - no chitchat. As he approached my mouth with the dreaded tools, I took my cue from my head-below-heart position - oddly comfortable.
“I was kind of shocked the last time. Just curious, compared to other people my age, how would you say my gums are - way worse, worse, about the same?” I didn’t even dream the scale would be higher for me.
“Oh, a bit better, I’d say,” and his hands continued to advance towards my mouth.
“You must be kidding? You suggested I had no business even having gums, and they are better? Unkind.”
He looked at me like I’d sprouted a second mouth. “Oh, sorry.” He shrugged. “I just don’t want them getting worse.” He paused for a moment. “You may just be one of those people with more minerals in your saliva. Try toothpaste designed to fight tartar.”
“Ok,” sighing with resignation, “do what you have to do.” I closed my eyes, irritated, thinking of all the anxiety I allowed him to cause me. I began writing this blog mentally, comforted by the fact all my GenX friends are suffering along with me.
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