Saturday, October 16, 2004

Dental arias keep flossin' on my mind

Singing hygienists really know how to get inside your head.

JUDY CARLOCK

Tucson Citizen

Every night before I go to bed I think of a woman in black leather and a poodle skirt, and realize there's no way around it.

I have to floss.

It's a burden, knowing someone cares so much about my mouth. And Cynthia Chillock isn't just nuts about dental hygiene. She's nuts, period. How else can you describe someone who has formed a singing group with a string of "hits" that include "Leader of the Plaque" and "Amazing Space (Between My Teeth)"?

I'm pushing my luck here. Cindy, who lives in midtown and works in the office of Dr. Elahe Wissinger just west of Wilmot, is in a position to make me suffer.

Of course, she's far too professional to do such a thing. Probably. (Disclaimer: In truth, Cindy has never, ever hurt me. When she's working on my mouth, I don't even know I have one).

I was introduced to Cindy's high oral standards when, relatively late in life, I decided to pursue a conscientious program of preventive dental care. My motivation wasn't high, but I remembered the adage: Ignore your teeth and they'll go away.

Genetics was on my side. My father died six years ago, teeth intact. My mother, 80, just lost her first. Her dentist warns her that without aggressive care she'll lose another in five years. She thought about that a minute and concluded, "What do I care?"

A childhood experience with orthodontia encouraged me to keep my mouth shut. Braces back then were about bondage and domination and the ache of straitjacketed teeth straining against barbed wire.

The retainer disappeared sometime in my teens, tossed into the garbage with the leftover fruit cup on my cafeteria tray.

Years later I decided it was time for some dental discipline. Lip service wasn't enough; I had to face the unpalatable truth. I submitted to Cindy.

She forced me to undergo root planing, a special punishment in which a tiny belt sander is inserted under the gum line to grind off bacterial barnacles. It's not nearly as fun as it sounds.

This took four appointments, during which I trauma-bonded with my torturer. We chatted. A typical exchange went something like this:

"Uh uhh ug uhhr ugh?"

"Yes, I think it is."

She knew what I meant, perhaps because of her keen musical ear. I was asking her if that was Aretha Franklin accompanying Ray Charles on "You Are My Sunshine," a CD I'd brought to drown out the whine of power tools (Hint: Don't bring Bob Dylan). Cindy was singing along.

(By the way, according to the liner notes, that is NOT Aretha, but it sure sounds like her. Did she ever record under a pseudonym?).

Ever since, Cindy has been my personal cheerleader and an endless source of strange devices: Tiny bottle brushes. Drool substitute. A tongue scraper.

A few months ago I asked Cindy what she was up to. She got this strange gleam in her eye and said, "I've managed to combine my two great passions: Singing and oral hygiene."

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