The Dentist

Last week we experienced what I will call

A Terrible Dental Experience.

And all because of my former arch nemesis – fear.

But this time it wasn’t my fear.

It was London’s fear.

(Is the same principle about sins of the father passed to the son true for sins of the mother passed to the daughter?)

Because this kid looks like me.  (I wish I could locate photographic evidence.  You would be convinced. I’ll start looking.  I promise.)

And, in this area at least, this kid acts like me.

Although I feel sorry that she looks like me – teenage years were not kind to my sense of self in that arena – I really want her to not suffer from my same struggles in the “acts like me” department even more.

London is afraid.

Of the unknown.

Of what might be.

Of what she has not yet experienced.

I can relate.

And recently, London was afraid of the dentist.

She had to get a cavity filled.  (Ugh – now my children have cavities at such an early age.  Yikes!  So many things I am doing wrong.)

And she was afraid.

“I don’t know what it will feel like,” she complained.  “I don’t know if it will hurt.  I don’t know what the dentist will do.”

And the list of “I don’t know’s” grew as we drove closer and closer to the dentist’s office.

(She was unlucky – it was like a forty minute drive.  Loads of time to let her mind dip and delve into the depths of her fears.)

By the time the technician called her name she was already in a pretty good state of panic.

It must have been evident.  I am sure the dentist has seen her share of terror-stricken faces to know a screamer when she sees one.

Without much hesitation, I think even before the obligatory introductions had taken place, the technician was asking me if I would be willing to sign a release form stating the dentist could use a physical restraint system if London needed it.  (Like I said – I guess they pegged her before she entered the room.)

I looked at the restraint . . .  some sort of plank that resembled a kick board for a swimming lesson attached to a white straight-jacket type garb decorated with foolishly bright rainbow-colored velcro straps.  I reluctantly signed the paper, knowing my kid and knowing the inevitability of the events to follow.

I took a deep breath and tried to begin a semi-rational course of Logic 101 with my London Eli.

I think we both knew it was in vain.

But it was like we were both on a train track and we knew the tracks ended soon but we couldn’t just hop the rails to avoid the crash in our future.

So I talked.

She cried.

And then the dentist and her assistant took over.

London screamed.

As in, I have never heard her scream in that manner before.  She was in a serious state of mental panic.  The rooms on either side of us were cleared so that the other unsuspecting, obedient, cooperating children would not revolt in similar fashion.  An extra dentist was called in – as back up.

London kept screaming.

And her eyes searched mine for salvation from her bondage as she pleaded, “No!  No!  No!” over and over again.

It was heartbreaking.

I had to avert my eyes and hold on to her still-tiny legs and stroke them as the mask went out and the screaming subsided.  (And then I cried.)

It was miserable.

I questioned my sanity, the correctness of the straight jacket thing, the long term effects, the need for cavity-free teeth, my willingness to sign that paper – everything.

I knew, logically, that London would be okay.  I knew she would survive, forget most of the memories of the day eventually.  Knew she needed her tooth to be repaired.  Knew she would realize the pain of the filling was not that bad after all.

Logically, I knew these things.

But in the moment  – oh my goodness – it was painful.  It hurt me to hold her legs still, to watch her fight and to scream and to lose against powers that were stronger and bigger than her.

Really, it sucked.

And as I thought about sharing this in a post I wanted to wait until I had some spiritual spin to it.

A point.

A tidy bow at the end.

But I don’t have one really.

Or maybe I do.

Sometimes things just stink.

And sometimes we make a bad situation worse than it actually has to be

because we keep fighting

what is truly best for us.

There’s my point, I guess.

For whatever it’s worth.