Just A Simple Cleaning

Wednesday was going to be a big day for me: firing on all cylinders at work to prepare for an early morning presentation the next day, a quick trip home in the afternoon for a dentist appointment and then to start on pizza dough for the evening’s dinner, finishing up at work, racing home to pick up the girls and a visiting Japanese student who was really eager to try pizza, and then a trip to the mall after dinner so said Japanese student could get a good taste of American shopping.

Now, let it be known clearly that I don’t like pain. This dentist appointment I had was a simple semi-annual checkup and cleaning. No big deal. I’ve been going to this particular dentist for a number of years now, and his crew is always really good. Not much pain to be had there, and that’s how I like it.

So when I arrived and was directed into the exam room, I saw that they had a new dental hygienist. ‘Ruh-roh,’ I thought. ‘Hope she’s gentle.’

Not two minutes after getting settled in the chair, I realized that she must be fresh out of dentistry school. For one thing, she didn’t know how to run the suction hose. She handled it like an imposter. She bent it into a “J” and tried to hang it on my cheek; first on one side, then on the other, then back to the first. It sucked itself on to my tongue and stayed there. I tried to help by biting down on it and pressing my tongue against my palate to pry it off the end of the tube. Meanwhile, I started to detect a critical buildup of spit in the back of my throat. Mr. Slurpy was not doing his job there, and I was not heartened by the hygienist’s inability to notice this fact.

She began her tour of my mouth by employing the sharp pokey prod of doom. She said this was to check my gums for gaps and bone loss, but I’m convinced she was looking for treasure. She used this spear to dig clean through the base of my skull. And while poking and jabbing, she continually called out numbers to her assistant: “2, 3, 3, 2, 4…” Evidently these have to do with the severity of gum recession. In one place she found a really good opening (a “7” she said), and she started trying to pry it wide; apparently enough to plunge her entire head through to get a better look. I wonder if she realizes that I’m capable of feeling pain.

She calls out to the assistant: “There’s some bleeding on 12.” Imagine that! Say, you don’t suppose that jagged pike you’re clawing around with has anything to do with it, do you? Because I wasn’t bleeding before I sat down.

The phone rang, and her assistant said she had to answer it. The hygienist tells me I can relax for a minute. As if I could. I am suddenly aware that my body is as rigid as a board laid across the chair. Relax? I won’t even come close to relaxed for at least five more hours.

The assistant returns, and the prodding continues. I still won’t talk. Can’t – I’m busy choking on my own saliva. Mr Slurpy is still not positioned correctly.

“How are you doing?” The hygienist asks.

“I could use a couple of shots of Jack Daniels, since you ask,” I tell her. She is not amused. I wonder if she might have a bullet I can bite down on.

She asked me to close my mouth a little. I wasn’t given time to explain that it was only open to let out a silent scream.

Eventually, she concludes her excavations. My gums feel like I’ve just swallowed a grenade.

I’m glad that the worst is over; the only things left after this are the scraping, polishing and flossing.

But I was wrong.

Because at this point, she deployed a dental tool the likes of which I’d not yet encountered.

“Okay, I need to get under your gums a little bit,” she says.

What was it she was doing before? Lightly massaging the outsides?

“This has water and vibration. You might feel a little irritation, so let me know if you can’t handle it.”

This can’t be good. She didn’t warn me about the scythe she carved my gums out with, but she’s warning me about this?

“Okay…” I said, hesitantly.

Then she introduced me to a whole new world of discomfort.

This sinister new device could only have come from the workshop of Vlad the Impaler. Imagine a large, needle-ended probe that fires an aquatic laser beam out the tip, while it simultaneously emits ultrasonic skull-piercing auditory shrapnel. It is Satan’s very own WaterPik.

She was true to her word: she got under my gums. For the next twelve hours ten minutes she brandished that thing in and around my teeth with what I believe to be fiendish glee, stopping occasionally so I could use my tongue to maneuver the watery gore in my mouth toward Mr. Slurpy and avoid drowning.

I would have gladly gone with another round of the prodding instead. I made every effort to go to my happy place.

Eventually, round two was over. Next came the scraping. For this, she has a miniature mattock that she dragged along my teeth, raking tartar off here and there. It is always essential to scrape off a few square inches of living tissue while doing this, so that fresh gumflesh is exposed, and to generate the proper amount of blood loss.

Round four: the polishing. She was merciful here, doing a quick slap-dash of the minty #50 grit, only polishing my tongue twice.

Round five: the diamond-carbide dental floss. I got a lecture on how to floss properly while having this razor wire drawn several inches deep into my still-bleeding gums. Being polite, I refrained from screaming “MOMMY!” during her dissertation.

And with that, she’s done. I’m left broken and bloodied, properly beaten down in preparation for the dentist’s exam. He spends exactly nineteen seconds looking inside my mouth and touching each tooth lightly with a little prod. “Okay, looks good!” he says.

I felt like my chops had gone five rounds with Evander Holyfield. I dragged my wounded self home to work on pizza dough. My wife was there, cleaning the kitchen.

“How was the checkup?” she asked. I didn’t say a word, but just opened my mouth. “You’re bleeding! What did they do?” she asked, incredulous.

“More than I was prepared for,” I said.

Can’t wait for September!