One Tooth Over the Line

A few weeks ago I found myself thinking about losses, and how many one could manage to handle without just crying all the time.  I thought it was pretty wonderful that humans were built to somehow "manipulate" their sadness by allocating energy to really feeling it only when they were ready to, and (mostly) not at inappropriate times in inconvenient places, like during a child's choir concert (tears of sadness, not joy) or on line at the grocery store or the bank.  (Yes, I still go into the bank once in a while, because the wait is shorter than at the ATM.  Don't judge.)

Then other things came to be be on my mind, like finishing the religious school year, and refurbishing my office, and getting ready for confirmation, and celebrating milestones (birthdays, work anniversaries - fun stuff) and I forgot about the conversation I was having with myself about loss in general, and my losses in particular: mother, sister-in-law, friends, breasts, etc.  Life went on.

This morning I got a call to (I thought) confirm my dental checkup appointment for tomorrow at noon.  As I was getting ready to say that yes, I'd be there, the receptionist told me that the dentist will no longer be doing my cleaning, and that they would make my appointment with a nice hygienist. 

You should know that for much of my life I have hated the dentist.  As a child, our dentist seemed to do his best to pull my lips completely off my face in an attempt to reach every tooth in his inspection, as did all the hygienists while they cleaned.  As a young adult I never found a dentist who could "undo" the anxiety that had built up, and luckily I have pretty strong teeth so it wasn't a huge problem. 

About 25 years ago the local pediatric dentist brought in a part-time guy to treat the parents, to see if he could build up a bigger clientele.  And that's when I met my dentist, Dr. Boff.  He was pretty young but nice, likeable, didn't treat me like a child (has NEVER ONCE said "I see we aren't flossing, are we?") and was gentle but thorough.  He nursed me through my first and only crown and has been my dentist ever since.  At the time, he didn't get assigned a hygienist, so he did his own cleanings. 

It was a perfect setup for me - I only dealt with one person, I trusted him, he treated me well, and he inspected while he cleaned so it saved a little time.  Then he left that office and I followed him to someplace in Ridgewood, where he continued to be my dentist in just the same way.

 When he set up his own shop (a lifelong dream of his) in Ramsey I was there, and Alex, my "idiosyncratic" son trusted him, as Dr. Boff took extra time with him to allay his fears.  Shortly afterward the other 2 boys chose him as their preferred dentist too.  I've sent many friends to him over the years, and I don't regret that at all.  He and I have chatted (well, he chats, I mostly mumble through his work) over the years about baseball, his wife, his kids (all of whom he acquired during our relationship) and his health.

Despite a few fillings, some painful scraping, and all that goes with a dentist visit for the non-scrupulously brushed/flossed/rinsed set, my anxiety about going to the dentist gradually faded, until I no longer regularly delayed my appointments. As a matter of fact, I haven't delayed them at all - until today.

I told the receptionist that this would really be quite a change for me and I would have to think about it, half hoping she would say something like "Oh, never mind, I didn't realize it would be so hard for you - we'll just make an exception in your case."  Or that Bob (that's his name) would suddenly call out, "Don't call Rebecca - I'll keep just her!"  But she didn't, and he didn't, and I hung up the phone.  I started to write an email to the office to make my case for exceptional treatment, because I had always had "exceptionally good" (got that nice turn of phrase there?) treatment, but I just couldn't figure out what to say.  So I called her back and promptly burst into tears.

She was horrified, told me it was nothing personal, which I gulped that I understood, and said I'd have to figure things out on my own and get back to her.  I told her it was NOT. HER. PROBLEM.  But I can only imagine what I must have sounded like, sobbing away and trying to explain that I needed to talk to all my friends who went there (remember, I got them some nice business, but I didn't say that) to see which hygienist might be the least problematic for me.

 I told her that I certainly don't feel as old as I actually am in people-years most of the time, but that this particular thing has made me react like an "old person."  Make that "old, cranky, demanding" person.  So she said she'd talk to him and I said I'd talk to my therapist (that I have because I have BREAST CANCER and a MASTECTOMY and couldn't you people be just a little sympathetic? - None of this was said out loud but I sure did think it.)  And we left it at that.

Conclusion:  my theory that the sadness of personal loss is cumulative is pretty dead-on, at least for me, and my theory that I can manipulate my sadness into appropriate and tasteful times/places is shot to hell.