Once more into the breach

   

     I had an opportunity today to again use the breathing skills I acquired for the birth of my kids. Knowledge is a wonderful thing, and it’s good to know that something once learned is never lost. 

     I revisit the Lamaze method three times a year when I have my teeth cleaned. (I see my hygienist three, rather than two times a year, because I hit the jackpot when the tartar gene was being passed out.) 

          And three times a year I sit in the chair and think longingly about major surgery, when they medicate you into total oblivion. 

          I’m fortunate that I have no major dental issues, I have all my teeth, and my gums are still gamely hanging in there. However, those teeth have been around for quite a few years now, and have seen me through quite a few meals. Thus, cracks. 

          My nemesis is that water pick they use now to ferret out the extra baggage that’s hiding under our gums. Each time that frigid water is zapped at the teensy fissures and fractures in my teeth, I’m rocketed eight inches out of my soothing beige, ergonomically padded chair. Fortunately, my hygienist Jenn (who I’ve already told I will follow like a Hollywood stalker should she switch to another dental office) knows that my threshold for pain is not only flat, but practically concave. Now she spreads a glorious numbing agent all over my mouth before picking up an instrument.

     That, plus the breathing techniques from long-ago childbirth, has made it possible for me to go to the dentist without a cattle prod at my back.