COVID Chronicles—Dental Daydreams

by Joan Rose

LW contributor

Recently, I went to my dental hygienist to have my teeth cleaned. This is not something new to me because I have been going to her (or someone like her) every six months for...oh, like forever. I am very diligent when it comes to dental upkeep because I floss and brush after every meal. If this sounds like overkill, I am happy to report that at the ancient age of 83, my choppers are still in pretty good shape. It pays to be good to your teeth.

Due to the COVID pandemic, I had skipped my last cleaning, and I found that dental office protocol this year was a little different. When I entered the dentist’s office, there were no patients in the waiting room. Before I could even sit down, however, I had to stop at a desk where the masked attendant asked me to fill out a form and she took my temperature.

Through my mask, I mentioned to her that I had received both my COVID-19 vaccines, but this fact didn’t seem to make her feel any different about the form that I had to fill out. So I dutifully checked all the correct boxes and gave it back to her, whereupon she took it and fled to the glassed-in protection of the inner office.

Presently, my dental hygienist came out, double masked and gloved, and motioned for me to come into her inner sanctum. She motioned for me to sit down, and as I took off my mask and settled back in the dental chair, she lowered the chair and placed a tiny bib around my neck. As she turned on a blinding overhead light, I quickly shut my eyes, opened my mouth and prepared myself for the scraping of my teeth by her sharp, wicked little instruments.

As I sat there, feeling every little poke and scrape, I tried to get my mind off what she was doing by thinking about what dental hygienist school must be like. What does it take to be a dentist or a dental hygienist? First, I’m sure that you would have to be certain that you would not be squeamish at the thought of putting your hands in other people’s mouths, bleeding gums or causing a little pain to someone.

As I continued to daydream, I imagined that the class for dental hygienists would be held in a mock-up of a dentist’s office. There would be a dental chair and the dental tray with several stainless steel instruments laid out, all of which looked like miniature ice picks—shiny and sharp.

Mr. Ferguson was the wise, graying teacher, and I imagined that he would stand in front of a group of students, hold one of the ice picks up and say, “Now, class, this particular pick is for doing really deep work when the tooth has thick layers of tartar that you must scrape off. Don’t be afraid of going underneath the gum surrounding the tooth and really work at it. Remember that tartar on teeth inflammation and tooth loss, and we are here to do battle with it. There will be blood, of course, but that is what the water jet and the suction tube is for. Use these tools to suck up the saliva and blood as you are scraping off the tartar.” Ferguson noticed that at the mention of blood, several of the students paled a little, inhaled sharply and took a step back.

Then the teacher looked seriously at his class and he warned, “ Now don’t be afraid to scrape with some force. Tartar is stubborn and may have been building up on these teeth since the Carter administration.”

At this point, I imagined that a timid young lady would raise her hand and say,, “But, Mr. Ferguson, won’t all that digging under the gums hurt the patient?”

Mr. Ferguson would smile and say, “Of course, my dear, but it will only be an occasional twinge, and the patient will shrug it off. Don’t forget, if you really display some diligent, exuberant digging and scraping, the patient will think that you really are thorough and feel lucky that you are doing the job.” The class smiled back and nodded.

My daydream was interrupted as I realized that my hygienist had finished her scraping and jabbing torture, and I was very relieved.

Next came the actual cleaning and for this, she used a round, spinning brush and some strange tasting, gritty toothpaste.

She went over each tooth with the brush and paste, pressing down hard. However, I knew that no matter how hard she pressed with the brush, I would still have yellowish, old looking teeth at the end of the procedure —but by God, they would be clean!

Finally, she was almost through, but now came torture by dental floss as she patiently went over and around each and every tooth in my head with unflavored dental floss.

At times, the floss would get stuck in a crevice. My hygienist seemed to get angry at the stubbornness of the floss and she would then yank it out.

I was relieved when she put all her evil tools down on the tray and put my chair back into a sitting position.

She handed me a paper cup full of water and a suction cup device.

I rinsed my mouth out several times and spit into the suction cup which seemed offended as it took the water away very quickly with a loud gurgle. Then my hygienist took off my bib and at long last, I was done.

“See you next time!” my hygienist said cheerfully through her mask as she helped me to my feet. Then she ushered me out of her torture chamber and handed me my little plastic goody bag, as she did every time I came in. I knew that the bag was filled with boring things such as a tiny container of floss, a miniature tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush. Secretly, I always feel as if this little plastic bag is given to me as a reward for being such a brave little girl and hardly crying at all through the whole ugly procedure.

Then I stepped up to the counter and paid the bill for this bi-annual attack on my mouth. As the receptionist behind the glassed-in enclosure made my next appointment, I was fervently grateful that I wouldn’t have to worry about this ordeal again for another six months.