So, at 29 years old, I’m so scared of something that I can’t function. The path that leads me to this point is a long and twisted one but I’ll share anyway.
When I was very small, I went to the dentist on schedule: every six months for my cleaning. Never had cavaties (my line of thinking even makes me look at that word and cringe), never had an issue–with the exception of my grown up teeth being crooked. I distinctly remember a conversation with my father. I asked him for braces so my teeth wouldn’t be crooked any longer. He replied, “No one has ever been denied an education or a job because of crooked teeth. Braces are a waste of time, money, and energy.” So I learned to smile only showing my top teeth (the non-crooked ones).
Then I went for a cleaning on a crisp fall day in my 7th grade year of school. I suppose I was 13 or so. The dentist, who was a family friend and former parental unit’s classmate, said that I needed to have my last baby tooth pulled because it wouldn’t allow my “grown up” tooth to come in. So the appointment was set that day for the following week.
At this point in my life, I had not had any type of major dental or medical work done. I wasn’t sure what to expect but my mother assured me that they would put me to sleep so I wouldn’t know what was going on. So I felt a little better, still apprehensive. Walking in the doors of that dental office alone was terrifying. I went alone because both parents worked and the dentist’s office was literally on the same street as my middle school.
Sitting in the chair, the sweet dental assistant tried to assure me that I had nothing to worry about. They would numb my mouth with a shot of novocain. WAIT! STOP! Shot? In my gums? Needle in my mouth? This was not a part of the plan and this was before the era when every 13 year old had a cell phone. All the paper work had been signed, all the instruments cleaned. Novocain loaded in syringe. I couldn’t back out. My mother went to a lot of trouble to pay for this dental visit. That tooth is coming out today. After all, the kind Doctor needed to pay for his wife’s salon visit…I’m sure.
The chaos, mayhem, and massacre of my mouth (and not in a good way) that followed is only remembered as flashes of blood, bright lights, screaming, and someone getting flogged in the groin with my right elbow. Apparently, my gums are impenatrable or that novocain wasn’t within its “use by” date or something. I felt everything! And heard the dental assistant say, “Wow, that’s a lot of blood. We should probably call her mom to come now.” 16 years later, that hole in my crooked smile remains. I like to tell people I’m working on my Jewel impersonation (you know, the singer?). Nope, no “grown up” tooth there to drop down.
Why would I be scared of the dentist? Oh, well..ya know… it could be that whole Freddy Krueger scene that keeps replaying in my head anytime I hear the word dentist comes to mind. So, with tears in my eyes, I broke the news to my husband last night. His response? “At least you only have two to have taken out. And you’ll get to eat ice creams for like three days with no excuses or apologies.” Great, Thanks Dear. I’m lactose intolerant.
My mouth is swollen on one side. Everytime I talk, swallow, smile, use the phone on that side, lay my head on a pillow on that side, there’s that pesky reminder that, while I really don’t want to have to deal with this, I’m going to have to Momma myself. I would like to sweep it under the rug and pretend that everything will be okay. Nope. Putting on my big girl britches and calling the dentist. Maybe I’ll get good pain meds at least, right?
Diary of a Dirty Domestic Goddess 