If You See My Dental Hygienist, Please, Tell Her She is Beautiful

I knew something was different the instant I saw my dental hygienist yesterday.  Her color seemed off—maybe a bit pale.  She was wearing a cable knit wool hat when she came to get me from the waiting room.  Maybe she is feeling under the weather, I thought.

My hygienist is a talker.  She tends to fill my mouth with tools and tubes and then prattles on, interjecting questions occasionally.  I usually lie back in the chair and allow my eyes to explore the ceiling, hoping the questions do not involve math or long, half-mouthed answers about what I am doing for work these days.

Yesterday, she took x-ray images of my teeth and then went to work on my regularly scheduled cleaning.  After cleaning for only a minute or so, she announced: “I am overheating with this hat on.”

The instant she removed the hat, I understood.  She was bald.  All of her blondish hair was gone.

“I just finished a fight with cancer,” she announced.  “I am cancer free now.  I am feeling much better.”

“What kind of cancer,” I asked. 

“Breast,” she said.

She stopped working on my teeth.  We talked.  Normally, I am annoyed when this happens; I want to get finished and go on with my day.  Not so, yesterday.  We talked about our families.  We talked about dogs.  We talked about Montana.  We talked about cancer.  I looked into her eyes and thought of all those loved ones I have lost to cancer, including my wife.

Eventually, the hygienist finished with my teeth.  “I hope you are feeling one-hundred percent when I see you in six months,” I told her as I rose from the chair. 

“See you then,” she replied, smiling broadly.

Only after I walked out the door did I feel a pang of regret.  I should have lightly grasped her hand and told her that she is still beautiful.  I should have told her how happy I am that she is still with us.  I should have remembered her name.

--Mitchell Hegman