Earthquake-proof the Dentist Office

Where do you feel most vulnerable?

I think I have to say for me, it’s when I’m in the chair. Where dental procedures are performed. Where my personal space is invaded. Where pain is involved. Where my airways seem to be impeded. That chair. Compared to other circumstances I’ve faced, say, being in stirrups, (and I’ve given birth three times and each time was by a different method so I can honestly speak to a variety of vulnerable positions), dental procedures evoke a very extreme level of anxiety. The level that makes dentists wish they’d earthquake-proofed their office, such are the tremors that emanate from my body and encompass the chair I’m occupying. I’m not exaggerating.

A couple weeks ago a convergence of increasing pain in my mouth and available funds sent me to the chair. Since we moved last year, I had to find a new dentist. Add another level to the anxiety meter. So at the first appointment, which was for exam and x-rays only, I put it right there on the forms I filled out. About being extremely anxious in the chair and how I would be taking an anti-anxiety medication to get through whatever procedures needed to be done.

I felt hopeful with how the young lady at the counter greeted me and helped me with insurance paper work and forms. And her interest in me as a person came through very clearly.

When my new dentist entered the room, I so appreciated that he kept his distance as we first talked, and that he listened. He asked me from where I thought the anxiety stemmed. He didn’t interrupt as I listed a myriad of circumstances involving dental horrors in my childhood. Topping the list was my first visit at age twelve, a tooth that my parents refused a root canal on, insisting that I would lose all my teeth by the time I was twenty-one anyway so just go ahead and pull it, leaving me there alone because they had things to do, me sobbing with terror, the dentist pulling the tooth and dropping it down my throat, which I gagged and choked on but eventually coughed out, the dentist yelling at me and telling me it was my fault that he dropped it. Yeah, it was pretty traumatic. Other things on the list were fillings done without anesthesia, and being told what a baby I was for complaining about the pain because there are so many other things way more painful.

I’ve had a number of root canals, crowns, tooth extractions and deep cleanings since then that didn’t qualify for horror movie ratings but the initial incidents are ingrained and affect every single new encounter.

My new dentist listened to it all. And then he affirmed me. He said what I’d experienced was horrible and it shouldn’t have been done that way. The next thing he said was so unexpected I still almost can’t quite believe I heard my ears right. Basically he said, “There’s nothing I can do to go back and change what happened. But what I can do right now is apologize for the way those dentists practiced and for what they did to you. I’m saying I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

Really?!? Yes, really. I’m still processing what that means. And I am working through that forgiveness.

Yesterday was my appointment for the root canal. I took my little Lorazepam to take the edge off my anxiety. My sister became my TLC giver and chauffeur. She even offered to hang out in the tiny waiting room. I couldn’t do that to her. Just knowing she was close by at The Woods Coffee Shop was enough for me.

I still felt vulnerable in the chair. I still felt that my personal space was invaded. And hey, when the dentist said, “You’ll feel a little pinch now” as the needle was inserted into my locally anesthetized gum, I felt it. A few tears leaked out. And my body felt jerky (thankfully no tremors this time). But I also felt respected and heard. I felt the kindness, the care, the concern for my welfare, and the peace and presence of Jesus that friends and family were praying for.

I like what a favorite author of mine Steve Arterburn says in his book, Toxic Faith, “The true presence of God in my life does not provide escape from reality and personal responsibility. His presence should provide a firmer grip on reality and a hope that reality can be faced with all its pain and sorrow.”

The dentist also said he’d like to get to a place where I feel I can trust him. I’d like that too. It will take time. But what a relief it would be to approach the chair without a tremble, as there are more procedures ahead.

No Bump in the Road

I don’t own a lot of CDs. But there is one I’ve had for a dozen years. Listening to it has helped me encourage myself, especially after a time of betrayal. It’s called “The Mercy Project.” A favorite song on it, sung by Martina McBride, is called “You’ll Get Through This.” The chorus says,

“You’ll get through this, you’ll break new ground.

When you’re lost within your weakness, hope is waiting to be found.

You’ll get through this, no matter what it takes.

I believe in you for heaven’s sake.

You’ll get through this.”

It irks me when I hear someone say “just get over” it. I don’t believe we “get over” being betrayed by someone we trusted. Okay, I don’t think I will “get over” being betrayed by someone I trusted. To me “getting over” something is like saying it was merely a bump in the road, no big deal. Uh uh! Betrayal is no bump in the road.

So this song is a favorite because I have discovered that I’ve been getting through it. It’s like digging a tunnel through a mountain to find what my part was in it, as I forgive and keep forgiving the person. I think I’ve broken through a lot of new ground looking at and acknowledging my own part in it, confessing my sin to God and others, accepting forgiveness, uncovering deeper roots—the lies I believed about myself—that set me up for the situation and dealing with those, healing. I can think about the situation now and talk about it and the pain is no longer there. I remember the pain and can empathize with others when they experience it but I’m not staring out my window anymore feeling bereft.  

At a women’s gathering earlier this year I heard a speaker said, “You don’t have to clean up the mess someone else made.” Wow! What a concept. It’s their mess and they didn’t make the mess in my house. They made it in theirs. No need for me to step over it. I’ll be right here getting through my own mess.

What are the messes you’re getting through?

Mad Hatter

I’ll bet some of you are wondering if there is any significance to me wearing a hat in my blog photo. Why, yes. There IS a story behind that. Would you like me to tell you? Okay, I will.

Hats intrigue me although for a long time I hated ‘em. Growing up I heard a lot of dogmatic teaching on 1 Corinthians 11, which talks about hats, you know.

Did you know that a hat can be a harmful weapon? Sad but true. My own hat was used as a weapon against me one time.

The church I was raised in taught that 1 Corinthians insists women must wear hats—head coverings, whenever they are assembled to worship the Lord in a gathering of believers. We were also admonished that women must never cut their hair. One hot summer Sunday morning, as was the current fashion in 1971, I arranged my long hair into an upsweep with a curly wiglet on top. And then discovered to my frustration none of my usual hats would fit. So I grabbed a bright yellow triangular shaped scarf with fluttery fabric petals all over it, covered my hair entirely with it and tied it in a neat bow at the back. Now I’d heard a rumor that our senior elder’s wife disapproved of this type of head covering but since I thought it inappropriate to believe rumors and she had never personally told me this, I merely discounted the rumor and went off to church. I mean, my hair was completely covered, which was the whole idea, right?

           

No sooner had I sat down but I noticed our senior elder’s wife leaning over to him and whispering something to him while glaring angrily at me. He immediately jumped up, strode over to stand in front of me and in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, said, “How dare you come to the Lord’s table with such a hat on! You go home right now and change it.”

           

As you can imagine I was humiliated and mortified. And rather indignant, too! Instead of going home, I went to a nearby park and cried for two hours. My feelings were crushed.

           

I did get an apology of sorts a few days later as in “IF I offended you, sister, I’m sorry” but it was the beginning of the end for me at that church. No disclosure was ever given as to why that particular head covering was so offensive, and let me tell you, the hats worn by many of the women were by no means unostentatious.

A couple years later I left that sect and didn’t wear hats for a long time, except for my wedding. I finally realized a few years ago that hats appeal to me; hats are cute and fun, so why not wear them because my joyfulness is expressed when I wear one. And no worries about offending someone if I don’t wear one or wear the ‘wrong’ one. I’m pretty sure my praises to God are acceptable whether I’m wearing a hat or not.

           

It was really rather silly, don’t you think? Good thing there’s forgiveness for silly because I know I’ve been silly a time or two about stuff that doesn’t matter. And I’ve worked at forgiving the mad hatter as well.

And now I collect hats. Don’t have a huge collection—hats tend to take up space, you know, when they’re not covering up the space between my two ears, so I haven’t gone overboard amassing them. Only have about two dozen that I store in hat boxes. Occasionally I give one an outing. Here are a couple more photos of me joyfully doing so. 

This cute little cocktail hat was given to my daughter by an aunt. My daughter passed it on to me for safekeeping.

Although I never go out for cocktails, I feel rather flirty with the feather and veil in place.