And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
I never, ever, EVER thought a dentist would be my Moment. Never. I have been afraid of the dentist for my entire life. And by afraid, I don’t mean that I tremble a bit as I walk into the dentist office. I mean that I do everything I can to NEVER walk into that office. I mean that I will be physically ill as I walk into the office. That I will shake so hard, the dentist will have to figure out how to hold me still while he or she is doing what needs to be done. That I will cry before, during, and after the appointment.
It’s ridiculous, really, and I hate it. But it’s always been this way.
The first dentist appointment I remember going to was to have four baby teeth extracted when I was in the second or third grade. The roots of my baby teeth did not dissolve, as they’re supposed to, so that they will pop out as the adult teeth grow in. My pearly little baby teeth stayed firmly in my mouth, not even a wobble to them, until I told my mother that something felt strange. When she looked, she saw that my adult teeth were already erupting behind my baby teeth. I now had two sets. So off to the dentist we went.
This was not a kind dentist, or even a sweet-natured pediatric dentist who loved children. This dentist treated everybody of all ages and he did not treat them gently. He first tried to yank out my four baby teeth without any kind of painkiller at all, that soon had me screaming in the chair and trying to escape. He then slapped a smelly black mask over my face and pumped me full of ether.
Ether was a horrible thing. Ether flashbacks are very real, and there are actually support groups for people who were ethered during surgeries and dental procedures. It’s odd and striking how similar everyone’s experiences are: like others, I felt like I was falling down a dark twisting tunnel and there was weird maniacal laughter all around. The smell was singular, and as I write about it, I can still smell it. To this day, I have trouble wearing masks. I never wore one, until the pandemic, and then I had to, and I would have to find small private corners where I could take it off and breathe for a bit to rid myself of the panic.
When I came to that first day with a dentist, I was in a side room off the dentist office that had cots. I immediately rolled over and threw up. From that point on, I tried to hide erupting teeth as best I could. I only had a couple teeth that came out the normal way, and I didn’t lose my last baby tooth until I was 17 years old.
Consequently – fear of the dentist. No, not fear. Terror.
Which means, as a 63-year old adult, I typically only go in to the dentist when I absolutely have to. I can’t use laughing gas, because that involves a mask. And I can’t be drugged beforehand because, since Michael doesn’t drive, I always have to drive myself.
In 2017, when I was dealing with breast cancer, I noticed a strange phenomenon. I broke a tooth and had to go in to the dentist. It only needed a filling, which was a relief, but I also noticed that I didn’t feel fear. I went in, sat in the chair, opened my mouth and just waited for it to be over. It was as if the experience of the breast cancer was so all-encompassing, the dentist no longer mattered. I had bigger things to worry about.
But after breast cancer…the fear came back.
A couple weeks into the current ordeal of Michael’s being struck and run over by a minivan, I was trying to throw aside some of the stress by having some of my kids over to have dinner and to play Animal Crossing Monopoly, a family favorite. We had pizza and then settled around the game board. I pulled out my classroom candy (a benefit of attending classes at AllWriters’ – there is always a basket of candy on the table!) and I chose one of my favorites, a red Twizzler, for myself. I bit down and heard that crack that should cue horror music. I broke a tooth on a freaking piece of licorice.
In the middle of dealing with the chaos with Michael, I wondered if it would have the same effect on me as the breast cancer did. But no. I made the appointment and walked into the dentist office, tearful, nauseous, shaking. And this time, so full of stress that when the dentist lowered the seat, she said, “Kathie, you’re not curving with the seat. You’re like a board. Try to loosen your muscles.”
Yeah, right.
This was a new dentist to me, as I rarely go back to the same dentist twice. I hope to never see the dentist again when I walk out. But this dentist…well, we talked about my experiences and my fears. And we talked about what was going on with Michael. She and her assistant sat on either side of me and held my hands as I talked and cried. And then…they got to work over several weeks as they prepared the tooth for a crown. It was ground down, then a fake crown put on, and finally, this week, the real crown installed.
And here’s the thing. Unlike that first monster dentist who acted like I was just a body, this dentist listened. As soon as I gave the smallest of squeaks, she stopped. Even if nothing hurt, but I just thought it might hurt, she stopped. She and her assistant explained everything as they went. And they believed me when I said something was hurting and they gave me more of whatever it was to numb me. I’m immune to novocaine, so she ordered something special, and eventually, I was frozen from my forehead to my chin. It was amazing.
And somehow – she made me laugh. By the time we reached this week’s appointment, my body curved into the dentist chair. Even though she looks like she’s about twelve years old, I didn’t mind when she called me “kiddo”. She’s just a kiddo kind of person.
I puzzled over this as I drove home this week, the new shiny crown in my mouth, the closest I will ever come to being royalty. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt. It did, but only for little tiny moments and then she addressed it until it didn’t hurt anymore.
I think it was that I was listened to. Unlike that first awful dentist. Unlike the one I had in my teenage years that didn’t believe me when I said the novocaine had no effect on me and went ahead and did the work anyway while I screamed myself hoarse. Unlike other dentists who have rolled their eyes.
She listened. She treated me seriously. And…I made it through.
How sad, really, to be 63 years old before I have a positive experience with a dentist. But I did. I might even go back before there’s a problem.
Maybe.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

