Low vision changes a lot of things. Dental appointments are pretty much the same though. I bring my cane, but it is more to communicate my vision impairment to others than for me to navigate the familiar office.
I hear the same sounds: scrapes, drills, and suction. The same cramped posture to swish minty mouthwash and spit into the tiny sink next to the chair. The same cold mirror that taps into my teeth as the hygienist picks away the months of plaque residue from my not-so-pearly whites. Even the same faint taste of blood as she flosses my teeth and tells me I do have some gingivitis.
I don’t miss seeing the wall art in the office.
At home, staring into the bathroom mirror, I still spot the usual landmarks: my snaggletooth, my smile, a large bit of something in that tooth space to the left that collects things, a scrapbooker of my meals.
With low vision, I don’t spot new chips in my teeth, or the gradual yellowing from the tea I drink in the evenings, or a receding gumline. The dentist tells me about those things. That’s what I pay him for, right?