July 6, 2006
Dentistry as punishment
Sometimes getting your teeth cleaned isn't all fun and games.

by Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Dentistry is in the air.

I love all things sparkling and cherry-sandpaper flavored, so naturally my over-achieving favorite pastime is getting my teeth cleaned.

Brushing puts me in a really good mood, and flossing is the icing on the cake, requiring another brushing.
I look forward to my six-month check-ups, and because teeth cleanings are as important as hair highlights, I'm careful never to reschedule an appointment.

I went to my appointment last week in a Downtown skyscraper; the view overlooks Monument Circle with minimally invasive laboratory lighting, and often I'm inclined to nap.

I ignore the unsettling brochures and life-sized posters dripping beneath fluorescent lamps, featuring the cross-sections and structural anatomy of Chronic Periodontitis and advancing Gingivitis.(Don't mock my descriptions you crazy science people.)

Do I care about a form of periodontal disease resulting in inflammation within the supporting tissues of the teeth, progressive attachment and bone loss characterized by pocket formation and/or recession of the gingiva?

Am I worried about the mildest form of periodontal disease causing the gums to become red, swollen, and bleed easily? (Not to mention bad breath.)

No. I'm just there to get my teeth cleaned.

I happen to like my dental hygienist, and don't mind hearing her stories about how she partied really hard the night before.

But when I arrived last week, I learned that my usual tooth inspector was off work for the day; instead, I was met at the operating table by Nurse Ratched.

Except for the pillow-like surface on which to rest my head, and the aforementioned Circle view, there was nothing enjoyable about this visit.

Ratched had it in for me from the get-go; she sensed my trepidation, and she pounced.

She decided to do that thing where they count your teeth: 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 3 -- 2 -- 1 -- 2 -- 2 -- 2.

I made the fatal mistake, trying to gain her friendship and sympathy, of asking what this process meant.

She punished my ignorance by boring her little tool into my gums as she counted. I missed the delicate adeptness of the party-girl.

I pretended to read the gory posters, acting as though normal people find them fascinating.

To this came no avail.

Hours after my violent cherry scrub, my gums still bled and ached.