I’m in love with my dental hygienist and other tales of self-care

This is an Appalachian Brown butterfly, resting and warming its wings on a rock in our front garden.

I had a dentist appointment this morning, just a cleaning, which I was very much looking forward to, because I was excited to see if the hygienist thought I had improved my flossing habits since last we met.

I feel kinda silly about that. Back in January, I had my first cleaning and x-rays in a very very very very very long time. I have not been diligent at all about flossing for an even longer time. (Read: ever.) I knew things didn’t look great inside my mouth, and I suspected there would be a lot of cavity-filling in my future. I was prepared for whatever the bad news was, but I still had some anxiety.

I’m not afraid of shots, or drilling, or even pain at the dentist. These days, mostly, the bills aren’t TOO scary (though when presented with a choice between a root canal and having a back molar extracted - - well, it was nice knowin’ ya, tooth!)

My anxiety about the dentist, apparently, is that I’m worried about disappointing the hygienist. As if I owe her an explanation of why my teeth are in terrible shape. As if I need to explain depression and poverty and addiction and just fucking life to this thirty-something insured mom with a real job and no real regrets.

So, back in January, as I was explaining why my mouth is such a mess (did you think I wasn’t going to do that?) she took a look, and said, “Well, you can definitely do better flossing, but you’re a very good brusher!” and I fell in love.

I guess I had a deep need for some positive reinforcement, for somebody I didn’t know to tell me I was doing something right, maybe. I floated through the rest of the day and when I got home, literally burst through the front door and announced to my adult partner that I was a good brusher. And hung the drawing of a tooth I did on the refrigerator with a magnet.

Today, as soon as I leaned back in the chair, I started to cry. Not big sobbing, just big tears, and I hardly made a sound, but this same lovely hygienist immediately produced a Kleenex without even looking at me.

I took it, and laughed, and she said “It happens all the time,” and nodded as I said, “I think I’m just emotional about sitting back and letting someone take care of me for a few minutes.”

Just… don’t forget to warm your wings and rest. Often.

(Also, I am officially a better flosser!)