A lot of shit comes out of my mouth, which is why I take oral hygiene very seriously. I brush, floss and rinse two times a day.
And therein lies my problem. According to my new dentist in Finland, that is not a winning strategy. Or at least, it is one that requires a few specialized techniques.
There are many cultural differences between Americans and Finns, but none so jarring as learning that I have been brushing my teeth incorrectly for the past several decades.
At first, I paid it no mind because the dentist had already told me that I didn’t have any cavities. The song and dance she gave me afterwards about how much toothpaste I should be using and the ideal angle at which to brush my gum line seemed like mere suggestions—just things she had to say to protect herself from liability.
On my way out the door, she recommended a professional cleaning, which also came as something of a surprise mostly because that’s the type of appointment I thought I had booked in the first place. But I guess that’s another cultural difference—a dental cleaning and exam are not always a package deal.
I am not one to fear the dentist, but even if I did, the teeth cleaning wouldn’t be the part of the visit that gave me anxiety. It’s the aftermath that I would worry about. But here in Finland, things can be a little bit backwards.
The first sign that I was in for something special was Valterri’s reaction. When I told him that I was on my way back to the dentist’s office to see the hygenist, he winced. Then, a propos of nothing, he asked me when I had my last meal.
“Oh right,” I said. “You can’t eat for an hour after the fluoride.”
“The what?” he asked.
“The fluoride,” I said. Then, because we seemed to be having some kind of communication glitch, I pantomimed putting a plastic tray in my mouth and biting down. He stared back at me blankly.
“Yeah, we don’t do that,” he said.
I sighed. “Of course you don’t,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Fluoride must be bad for the environment. What do they do, just use that round brush?”
“The what?” he asked again.
“That polishing brush,” I said. He shook his head. “You know, they give you a choice of toothpaste flavors, like orange creamsicle or bubble gum?” I prompted. “It spins around and shoots stuff all over the place?”
“No,” he answered, considering his words carefully. “We don’t do that. We use those metal hooks to scrape your teeth clean.”
“Well maybe for you,” I said, barring my teeth in case he forgot what they looked like. “My teeth are nice. No cavities.”
I did not believe myself to be a person in need of a tooth scraping. In fact, as far as I was concerned, I was mostly going back to the dentist’s office as a formality—to stay on my dentist’s good side so that when I visited her again in the recommended two years’ time (Oh, Europe), I would be able to report in all honesty that I had done what she said. For my trouble, I expected a fun flavored toothpaste.
When I walked into the dental exam room in Helsinki, the first thing the hygienist did was pull out a tray that contained about 15 different metal picks and then, in the plainest of English, announced “I will clean your teeth with these.”
The way she said it made me think that I would not be the first foreigner to try and talk her out of it. But actually, I wasn’t all that concerned. I know my way around a dentist’s office. I had braces for three years. I’ve had a couple of (baby) teeth pulled. Once, when I was a lesser person, I got a cavity. I’m not scared of a dental pick.
But I should have been. Because the only way to describe the next 45 minutes is as an assault. This woman scraped my teeth with a level of force and intensity that was only exceeded by the apparent pleasure she took in doing the job.
“There’s calculus here!” she announced, as if that meant something to me. “Underneath it is black.”
She must have said this five times before she finally got the desired reaction out of me.
“Is that bad?” I asked.
“It’s really bad!” she shot back, chiseling away at the enamel of my teeth. “It’s a good thing you’re here.”
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” I replied. If she didn’t have a metal hook inside my mouth I would have rolled my eyes. I’m not going to say that I don’t believe her—but just that I think she was being a little dramatic. She struck me as the type of person who needs to see herself as a hero, someone who, if not for patient privacy rules, would attach a GoPro to her head and stream the whole thing on Instagram Live.
“It’s very interesting,” she said, as if narrating to an imaginary audience. “Because the teeth are clean. There is no plaque. But there is so much calculus.”
“I don’t have any cavities,” I reminded her.
“You don’t,” she agreed. “But you have a lot of calculus! I can even see it on the X-ray.”
This was brand new information for me. The dentist hadn’t mentioned anything about calculus in the X-ray when I spoke with her two weeks prior. This further substantiates the idea that this woman was trying to break up the monotony of her day job by making tartar out to be a super-villain.
When the hygienist was finally finished, she laid down her weapons and handed me a mirror, which I assumed was for me to confirm that all my teeth were still intact. In actuality, it was for me to watch her demonstrate how to brush.
“You use one of these?” she said holding up an electric toothbrush.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Good,” she agreed, obviously relieved. “It’s better than the regular.”
As a person who once fell off a boat launch while taking a selfie, it takes a lot to embarrass me. But I must tell you that having a dental professional demonstrate to me, a highly educated, widely traveled, fairly accomplished woman of 38, how to use an electric toothbrush was almost too much to bear.
This woman left no detail to the imagination: The angle to hold the brush; how to cup each tooth; how long to focus on each side; when to add more toothpaste; why you’re not supposed to rinse with water afterwards.
And perhaps the biggest surprise of the day is that I actually wasn’t doing any of these things correctly. If this woman is to be believed—and there is frankly no reason not to—then I really have been brushing my teeth all wrong all these years. And, of course, me being me, I can’t help but point out: No cavities!
Hi — Sounded painful. Curious — why not rinse the teeth to get the toothpaste off? Never heard such a thing before.
Fun piece — for us. Probably wasn’t a great experience for you. :)
Ha! Yeah. Apparently it’s good to let the toothpaste sit and continue to work… I’m glad I’m not the only one to whom this is new information!
On my way to the dentist now….I’m scared what the hygienist is going to say!
Please report back on cultural differences (and toothpaste flavors).
Wow. That’s…intense.
it was a lot. still recovering. she’s making me come back in a month to make sure everything is “going well.” in other words, she knows who she’s dealing with.
I remember when American dental cleanings were more scraping and metal tools. Now they scrape a few things, use basically an electric toothbrush on you and complain about how often you floss (even if you do it every day). And, oh yes, they measure the gap in your gum line with mysterious numbers. Calculus in your mouth? You been chewing a math book?