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Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are dental hygienists.
But something happens to many of them when they slip on the vinyl
gloves, surgical masks and safety glasses.
Flossing becomes the top priority in their lives. They also insist
on conversing with you while propping open your mouth to scrape
your teeth.
"Have you been flossing? You have a lot of stain."
"Ugh."
"There’s also a lot of calculus."
"Ugh ugh."
The rest of the conversation would go something like this, if
I were able to pronounce intelligible words.
"I can’t believe the amount of calculus. You must not be flossing."
"Really, I’m flossing. I’m scared to death of you. In fact, when
your office calls two weeks before the appointment to remind me
of my checkup, I start flossing twice a day. But you never seem
to notice."
"I brush immediately after I eat anything. And I floss after every
meal. You really have a lot of calculus."
"I know. You told me that the last time. Do you think it might
have something to do with my body chemistry? I really do brush
and floss. And I use the mouthwash you told me to get."
"There’s an abnormal amount of calculus."
"Maybe that’s not all bad. I haven’t had a cavity in six years.
I wonder if calculus helps prevent tooth decay. My wife says you
never mention calculus to her, but she has a cavity every time."
"You also have a lot of stain. Do you chew tobacco?"
"No, But one of my golfing buddies likes snuff."
"Do you drink coffee?"
"Yeah, I love my coffee. I drink it all day."
"Coffee is terrible."
"For a change, sometimes I have a cup of tea."
"Oh, tea. Tea is even worse."
"Ugh."
"Well, I guess I’m just going to have to use the Cavitron."
"Okay. You did the last time, too."
When she’s finished, she always calls in the dentist for his blessing.
"Hi, Mr. Block. How does everything in your mouth feel?" the dentist
asks.
"Fine, thanks."
"Great. Let’s have a look," he says.
"There’s a lot of stain, which I couldn’t do much about," the
hygienist says to the dentist. "He also had a lot of calculus.
I had to use the Cavitron."
The dentist doesn’t respond. He taps a couple of teeth and probes
about my gums. "You’re doing a nice job of flossing," he says.
"Everything looks fine. Keep up the good work."
It’s not just my hygienist. My mom’s hygienist is very nice and
kind, too, until the gloves, mask and glasses go on.
My mom is 85 and has Alzheimer’s, bless her soul. Since our youngest
daughter hit puberty, my mom is the most honest person I know.
She can’t help but have her priorities straight, and she no longer
brushes, let alone flosses.
I took my mom to her last dental appointment. Very kindly and
patiently, the hygienist helped us back to the chair. Once gloved,
masked and bespectacled, though, the hygienist was aghast. "Your
mom is not brushing or flossing," she said.
"I know."
"Couldn’t you help her with that?"
"Well, my mom lives in a home now, and I don’t get out there every
day."
"The people at the home should be brushing and flossing her teeth."
"Probably. But I think they have bigger fish to fry."
"Bigger fish to fry?"
"Like making sure she’s happy and safe and taking care of her
accidents, if you know what I mean."
"The home is getting big money to take care of your mom. You should
demand that they brush and floss her teeth."
"Brush, maybe. But I don’t think even she would go for the flossing."
"Well, you must say something. And I’ll give them a call, too."
"Okay."
"I’m going to have to use the Cavitron."
"Fine."
When the dentist came in to give the blessing to my mom’s nine
or 10 teeth, he remarked that one was "blowing in the wind" and
several others needed fixing. "But I’m not going to do anything
unless she has pain. We could do more harm than good."
"Thank you."
"Do your teeth hurt at all, Mrs. Block?" he asked.
"No," Mom said.
Before taking my mom back to the home, we stopped for her favorite
thing, a strawberry ice cream cone. When the nurse’s aide welcomed
us back at the home, I didn’t say a thing to her about brushing
or flossing.
And when I asked, Mom didn’t want me to brush her teeth, either.
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