Brusha, brusha, brusha

 

     As I sit here looking at the little zip lock packet containing toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss I remember what my childhood dentist appointments were like.  They were nothing like the one I had on Monday. 

     As a child, I had military dentists.  They never bothered with Novocain when they drilled and filled teeth, six molars in my case.  You were expected to sit in the chair and not butt walk away from their work no matter how close they came to the root.  (And they did come too close in my case.)  Dentistry back then was brutal.

     On Monday, I was asked if I had pre-medicated—I had.  Pre-medication is ordered for me before any work is done because of having rheumatic fever in high school.  Then the dental hygienist numbs my gums with a topical numbing agent, after which another deeper numbing agent is used.  I have very sensitive teeth.  However, once all that stuff begins to work it’s let the cleaning begin.  You would think that I’d be sweating bullets after those old dentists I had but this is almost a pleasure.