Dental anguish

What’s the deal with the pockets in my gums (he asks in a Seinfeld-nasal voice)? My dentist has been haranguing me about the depth of these pockets between my gums and back teeth. Before he started digging in there a couple of years ago, I had never heard of such a thing.

I have pretty good teeth. In fact, the hygienist was so gaga over them in my last visit, she made me blush. She was smitten with my smile. If I had to be put under, I would not want to be left alone in the same room with this woman.

Though it was just a little creepy, I was feeling really good. Then the dentist came in.

He’s the kind of guy that would advise Picasso that “Guernica” looks pretty good, but maybe he ought to touch up some of those errant brush strokes and add some color.

But he hasn’t broken my spirit yet, and I really do like him. He gives me a delicate balance of guilt trip and fear—enough to encourage a “fight,” not a “flight” response. Somehow, he’s inspired me to floss like never before and, at his suggestion, I go through two cycles on my Oral-B toothbrush every morning and night. By doing deep knee-bends at the same time, I pass the time and get in a four-minute power work out.

A few years ago, if a dentist pressed me on how often I floss, I wouldn’t even bother lying about it. “Remember two years ago, the last time I was in your office?” I’d say. “Yeah, that was last day I flossed.” Their scare tactics had no effect on me. So, I have to give my new doctor credit.

He’s just so hard to please. Is he just really anal or are my teeth actually about to start falling out? I checked into it. It turns out the reason I had never experienced the joys of pocket probing was that periodontitis doesn’t pop up for most people until they’re in their thirties. Alas, I've been hit with my first age-driven health problem.

When they first started poking me with their measuring probe and calling out numbers, “4-5-3-4-2-4-3” and on and on, I had no idea what they were doing. Now, I understand that a 2 puts me on the honor roll, a 3 means I’ve been a good boy, a 4 means I’m just not applying myself, and a 5 means I’m a no-good lout.

With stigmatization like this, it may be high time for a rubber bracelet for gum disease awareness.