No Saints around Here: A Caregiver’s Days

Teeth Torture Time

65 TEETH TORTURE TIME March 29 When I woke up on Friday, I felt unexpectedly energetic. Then at breakfast James said, haltingly, between slow spoonfuls of Corn Flakes, “I think I have a loose tooth.” I was bustling in the kitchen, cleaning up, feeding cats, and looking forward to aide Martha’s arrival. But a loose tooth was serious. My promising morning had just developed a nasty blip. For several years James has suffered from dry mouth. Parkinson ’s and its medications can do that. Nothing we’ve tried seems to help. Dry mouth is not only uncomfortable, it is also an open invitation to bacteria and tooth decay. Anyone with dry mouth needs to see his dentist often. Just two weeks ago, James had a checkup (five small new cavities await filling). After breakfast, while brushing and flossing his teeth, I tried to get James to point to the loose tooth. First he tapped a lower tooth on one side, then, after some hesitation, changed his mind and tapped one on the other side. He wasn’t sure. I gently tried to wiggle both possible loose teeth, and I thought maybe, just maybe , I detected a little movement. I sighed to myself. What to do? Another trip to the dentist? So soon? James did feel something was wrong. I should trust that. So I went to the phone and wrangled an emergency appointment. When Martha arrived, I asked her to teeth torture time 66 drive James to our dentist’s office. When they returned, Martha was carrying a paper sack, which meant, ominously, Dr. Alder had sent home supplies. I should explain about my relationship to James’s teeth. I didn’t used to have one. He went into our bathroom at night and presumably brushed and flossed. I never observed this. Thankfully , we did not have that kind of togetherness. He also went for cleanings that I scheduled twice a year. I planned my own appointments so they coincided with his, so I only had to drive to the dental office once. He had his dental hygienist; I had mine. But a few years ago, as I was pinned into a dental chair, waiting for our dentist to inspect my newly shining mouth, James’s hygienist entered the cubicle. She was carrying a piece of floss and looking at it with palpable distaste. “James is not flossing at all well,” she said accusingly. Dr. Alder and I stared at the floss. We could both see largish bits of dangling food. It was not an attractive sight. “His gums are in terrible shape,” she went on. “If he isn’t able to take care of his teeth, you will have to start doing it.” Then she turned and went back to my errant husband. Dr. Alder looked at me. “Well, Susan, she’s right,” he said. “From now on, you’d better take charge of that.” He peered into my mouth, tested his instruments here and there, and left the room. Dot, my hygienist, eyed me sympathetically. “Oooh, ish,” she said, making a face. “I don’t think I could ever floss my husband’s teeth.” She had echoed my own feelings completely. I eyed her back. I was thinking oooh, ish a lot more strongly than she was. “Tell me something, Dot,” I replied. “Do you think Dr. Alder would ever floss his wife’s teeth?” She didn’t hesitate. “Not in a million years,” she said decisively. That wasn’t much comfort. I knew all too well that decaying teeth and rotten gums lead to an unpleasant outcome. I did not want James toothless. James didn’t like Dr. Alder’s idea either. That night James ar- teeth torture time 67 gued that he was quite capable of brushing his own teeth. I asked him to demonstrate. As I watched, he swished his toothbrush back and forth across his teeth a few times. Five seconds, maybe ten. I noticed how his hand trembled slightly with Parkinson’s. I didn’t bother to observe his flossing technique. “Okay,” I said. “Here’s the point.” I sucked in my lips with exaggeration as if I were toothless and lisped, “Do you really want to end up looking like this?” He considered. He got the point. Brushing James’s teeth is not easy. He loathes the vibration of his electric brush, mandated by Dr. Alder. As I try...