Independently Speaking By Brent Olson

Dentist

I have my dentist appointment this week. I’m not looking forward to it.

For one thing, it’s at 8:00 a.m. Back when I had a real job, I liked to get medical appointments out of the way right out of the gate. When I was still a pig farmer, any appointment that involved leaving the farm needed to be preceded by a shower and a change of clothes. These days that’s not as much of an issue. Still, 8:00 a.m. in Minnesota in January just seems really early.

But it’s only once a year. Once a year isn’t so bad. I used to go every six months, but after a few years without any problems, I decided the second visit was more or less for vanity, just getting those teeth cleaned and brightened. Then I had a brainstorm — if I just grew my mustache a half inch longer, no longer an issue. I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution, but it does leave me a little extra money to squander on riotous living.

I have no real reason for not looking forward to it. The staff are pleasant and competent, I walk out with shiny clean teeth and a fresh mouth, and I get a free toothbrush. 

I do carry the memory of a certain amount of childhood trauma. The dentist we had when I was little didn’t really believe in Novocain. The few minutes it took to kick in, he saw as wasted time that screwed up his day. Of course, if I remember correctly, he only charged $2.00/filling, so he needed to move through the patients pretty quickly. A few screams and heels drumming on the footrest were a small price to pay for efficiency.

These days, the plan is that you won’t feel a thing. If you need actual work done not only do you get numerous injections, they rub some sort of numbing agent where the shot is going to go, and the needle is so sharp and tiny it’s barely noticeable. When I told my hygienist about the giant needles that used to be standard, and the way they used them over and over again, to the point where needle sharpening was a skill taught, she didn’t believe me. It took someone older than her and more credible than me to back up my story.

Another story that no one believes but is the complete truth involves a root canal I got in 1974. The dentist at the time said we could go two ways — a lot of pain for a moment or less pain for quite some time. I went with the shorter option. He nodded and injected painkiller right into the exposed pulp of the tooth. It hurt so much it almost lifted me off the chair and then, like magic, it was gone. Completely numb.

About ten years later, I told a different dentist that story and he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s what they call a three pointer, where there’s nothing touching except your heels and the back of your neck.”

I thought he was just being clever, but when I told an entirely different dentist the same thing, he agreed. Apparently, that is terminology they used to teach in dental school.

The days of a dental three pointer are long gone, so I’m going to march into that building with a smile on my face and a friendly word, because I appreciate not having toothaches.

And hey, free toothbrush.

Copyright 2026 Brent Olson