I have a longstanding distaste for the dentist. I have hated going since I was very young–and once semi-annual check-ups became my responsibility, they became far less frequent.
As an adult–who is trying (at least on occasion) to set a good example for her children–I am going in every six months. I’ve found a hygienist that I like, and the dentist is quite nice, too.
At my last appointment, they discovered that a filling I’ve had since junior high was cracked and needed to be replaced. I have pretty strong memories of obtaining that actual filling–and it was not fun. After they assured me that it really did need to be fixed before it caused problems, I relented.
I arrived at my appointment this morning to find a heated chair, flat TV screen and wireless headphones. Not bad.
Then, the hygienist asked if I’d like nitrous. I’ve never had it before, but I will tell you this now: If you are ever posed this question, the answer should be an emphatic YES.
It’s not without side effects, though, as I found myself in several exchanges like this:
Dentist: You’re doing great. The hardest part is holding your mouth open so wide for so long.
Me: Well, I work out. (Laughs hysterically.)
I’m pretty sure they shut it off when I declared myself a “big fan” and asked if I could take the tank home with me. Since that won’t work, I’m going to cut down on my brushing a bit so I can spend another morning with Dr. Justin.
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