Category: dying

Another post that’s out of chronological order, but I need it to be out there, to be out of ME.

I have a massive fear of the dentist, and for good reason. In spite of consistently practicing good oral hygiene, throughout my whole life, every damn time I’ve gone to the dentist, there’s something or other that’s been fucked up with my mouth. It’s always painful. And, as an adult with shitty dental insurance, it’s always expensive.

The only good news is that, after 10+ years of just avoiding the dentist all together, I finally have a really good doctor here in San Antonio, whom my husband turned me onto, and whom I’ve been seeing for the last two years.

But, 10+ years of skipping out on regular check-ups, being a naturally high-strung individual who internalizes stress and, thus, grinds her teeth in her sleep like a fucking fiend, and also being a genetic mutant who still (up until today) has two baby teeth (molars)…my teeth are fucked up.

Back in August, on M’s and my anniversary weekend, I developed this pain in both one of my upper right molars, and the lower molar, right below it. Turns out, the lower molar is cracked, so I’ll need yet another crown (I already have two). The upper molar was one of my baby teeth, and that sucker had finally just given up the ghost. It was time to extract the tooth and install an implant.

I’d scheduled, canceled, and rescheduled this extraction/implant business three times, in part due to work and M’s medical stuff, but–let’s be honest–more because I was scared shitless.

But today was the day. My appointment was at 8:30 a.m. I am not a morning person, but I’d gotten up at 6:45. There was no reason for me to be late. Yet I was. By 15 minutes. Because I didn’t want to be there.

I got to the office, and they got me set up in the chair. I had expressed my terror to the periodontal dentist guy (not my normal dentist) and his assistant over and over during the prep process, but they did a really good job of calming me down, making me feel like it was all going to be okay. When I was sufficiently numb, they got to work. The doctor told me to wiggle my toes, squeeze my hands and let go and squeeze again, think happy thoughts.

Think happy thoughts.

Think happy thoughts…

WHAT HAPPY THOUGHTS???

Once again, as is my habit, apparently, we need to revisit a slightly earlier occurrence, one that happened last night, to help provide a little context.

Last night, I brought M some food from Pei Wei. At some point after we’d eaten, we’d gone back to our bedroom, where he’d asked me to massage the areas of his butt and side of his thigh that are in constant pain. After I’d finished doing this, he laid there on the bed, and I sat there next to him. I’ve mentioned in previous posts that we have four dogs. Two are smallish mutts I had before M and I got married. One is a 45 lbs. retriever/lab/something mix that had been M’s before we got married, whose name is Forest. The fourth dog is a man-puppy chocolate lab that just showed up at our door back in January of this year, and we kept him. He’s supposed to be my stepson, J’s, dog–and the dog really loves J–but the animal’s care falls mostly to M and me. That dog’s name is Hermes.

As we sat there on the bed after I’d given M that short little massage, he said to me, “When I go to Heaven, we can give Forest to my Uncle E.” I was a little taken aback, thought he might be kidding or something?

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When I go to Heaven, you take the little dogs. J will take Hermes, and Uncle E can take care of Forest.”

I realized he was serious. He’s never talked about…this. About death.

“You’re not going to Heaven,” I said. I reached out to touch him.

“Okay, then, when I go to Hell–“

“No!” I said, “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here with us,” I said.

We either stayed silent for a moment, or else we exchanged some sort of throw-away dialogue, I don’t recall. Eventually, though…

“I can take Forest,” I said. “He doesn’t have to go with Uncle E. I like Forest.”

“Three dogs is a lot of work,” M said. We’d had this whole conversation with him having his eyes closed, in pain, but having taken some CBD oil and waiting on a Tylenol 3 to kick all the way in. I don’t know how sound of mind he was, is what I’m getting at.

“I don’t mind three dogs. Forest is my friend,” I said.

“Okay, then,” M said. “When I go to Heaven, you can take the little dogs and Forest.” And that was the end of the conversation.

When he goes to Heaven…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m not there yet. We are NOT having that conversation yet. He is GOING TO LIVE, GOD DAMN IT!

Fuck…

Anyway, back to the tooth extractions and the happy thoughts. I had no happy thoughts. M is already planning for the afterlife. We have no plans to go anywhere, because we can’t make those plans. He is in constant pain. His PSA is going up and we’ve had a recent hospital visit (more on that some other time). I don’t know what becomes of me if I lose him, because I can’t ever imagine being happy again. I hate my job anymore, I don’t want to be there. There is nothing of material value that I can think of that brings me an ounce of joy. Thanksgiving? Christmas? Who cares? All colored over by this war we are fighting against an overwhelming enemy.

What the fuck could I possibly call upon as a happy motherfucking thought? In that moment? Nothing. Not a damn thing. I really thought I was going to panic, like I might have to just leap out of that dentist chair.

And then I remembered something I’ve been trying to work on. Breathing. Clearing my mind, and just focusing on the breath. I’ve dabbled in yoga, mindfulness. I’m inconsistent, and my brain won’t obey 99% of the time. But in that exact moment, I had nothing else, literally, there was nothing there to think about that could make me happy enough to get past the fear and anxiety of sitting in the dentist’s chair. All I had was the breath in that moment. And so that’s what I did: I focused on the breath. It worked. I still stumbled, my brain still got in the way, but it worked.

And then I paid $2215 for the whole thing and left.

I stopped to pick up prescriptions–antibiotics, bionic ibuprofen, some prescription mouth wash–and breakfast tacos for M. I’d barely gotten back in my car with the breakfast tacos when I started thinking about my tooth. That was a baby tooth, and it had been in my mouth since whenever it first showed up some 45 or 46+ years ago. That tooth had been with me through everything, through my whole life. It was one of the closest things–maybe THE closest thing–I’d had in my possession that qualified as something I’d had with me my whole entire life. And then I started crying.

I cried over a baby tooth. I’m 47 fucking years old, and I broke down over THAT. And even as I write this, some 10 hours later. I’m still sad. This emotional wobbliness…

Fuck this shit.