In praise of the gentle hygienist

Something unusual happened at my last dental appointment—I cried. This might be a typical reaction for a lot of people when they go to the dentist, but it was definitely a first for me. And it happened before I even sat in the chair. The receptionist greeted me with her welcoming smile, and then before we could engage in our usual chitchat, she asked, “Did you hear about Judie?” Judie is my dental hygienist. I told her I hadn’t and asked if everything was OK. She paused and then said, “Oh, honey, Judie died.” And that’s when I cried.

I will admit that I am not the best when it comes to my own medical care. I was great about going to all of my OB/GYN appointments when I was pregnant, but at this point I’m not sure my doctor would even recognize me—at least not from the waist up. I went a full decade without a primary care physician, because the one I had retired and I just didn’t see the need to find an immediate replacement. And I’m pretty sure I have not gotten my eyes checked since I was a teenager, and therefore I live in a constant state of denial when it comes to needing reading glasses. I am eternally grateful for the zoom function on my computer.

But when it comes to my teeth, I have always been a dedicated dental diva. I have never missed a regular six-month tooth cleaning. I spent years wearing braces, headgear, retainers and mouth guards, all in the name of dental due diligence. I chew only sugar-free gum. And I am even on a first-name basis with the tooth fairy. Her name is Irene.

As a child I had little choice about going to the dentist. But I loved my pediatric dentist and especially the toy box filled with things my mom called “useless junk” but that my siblings and I always regarded as pure treasure.

Of course, my pediatric dentist’s office was nothing compared to the one our children go to now. The front waiting room, decorated with dark panels and stiff chairs, with newsmagazines on the side tables and CNN blaring on the overhead television, is just a façade, intended to hide the Wonka-like atmosphere in the back where “no grown-ups are allowed.” I once snuck a peak into that back room, and it was like watching that scene in The Wizard of Oz when the movie transitions from black and white to color. The walls are brightly colored and donned with SEC football pennants; there is a basketball hoop, arcade games, a flat-screen TV, and even a Play Station and a Wii. And after every visit, each child leaves with a goodie bag, a bag of popcorn and soft-serve ice cream. All of which sounds more like a visit to Chuck-E-Cheese than the dentist’s office—and explains why our children beg to go to the dentist about every other week.

For an adult, trips to the dentist are definitely more fundamental than fun. I’m not sure who decided grownups don’t need incentives or goodie bags or football pennants on the wall while someone repeatedly hacks at our teeth until we bleed, but I for one think it would be a nice touch.

For me, Judie was always the key to my dental devotion. She wasn’t just a dental hygienist; she was a “gentle” hygienist. She was kind, friendly, and always so optimistic. Every six months I would spend an hour in her chair and we would trade personal stories with each other. Hers were always about her family, namely her four great-nieces whom she called “her girls,” and whose pictures were in cute little frames all around the office. And she was always eager to hear about my three boys, whom I managed to talk about in between spits. In more recent years, she loved talking about this column and always scouted out the newest issues of Chattanooga Parent, or waited for me to bring them to my next visit. She would say she got “such a kick out of reading about those boys—they are such a hoot!” And best of all, after each visit, Judie would hand me my very own goodie bag and then hug me good-bye, until the next visit.

As I sat in the chair this past visit, I couldn’t help looking around at the now sterile surroundings. Framed pictures of little girls were replaced with tubs of tooth-related products. The new hygienist asked a few obligatory questions, and then we spent the next 45 minutes in silence, and I had only the grating sounds of her instruments to fill my thoughts. When the dentist came to look at my teeth, we exchanged our usual pleasantries and jokes, and I finally said, “I miss Judie.” I felt tears well up in my eyes once again, and he just nodded and patted my shoulder.

Twice a year for the past 12 years I sat in Judie’s chair. To add up the time we spent together would amount to little more than 24 hours total. A single day. But I now realize that she was my incentive for coming to the dentist. She was better than popcorn, arcade games or even a toy box full of treasures. And most of all, she taught me that the one thing more important than regular flossing is friendship.

In loving memory of Judie Bailey.