Not Really About the Dentist

One of the more annoying parts of moving frequently is finding a dentist. When we arrived in the DC area, I asked my neighbor for a recommendation. Because she is also a military spouse, I knew they would accept our insurance. 

Of course, new patient appointments are always hard to come by at all, but during the covid era, it meant waiting several months before we could get in for our regularly scheduled cleanings. In September, I scheduled my appointment for January 4th.

At the beginning of our winter break, Ben and I were scheduled for a four-day trip to NYC for his 13th birthday. The night before we left, one of my crowns fell out because of course it did. Scott dutifully swung by Walgreens for some dental cement, and I put the cap back on and hoped for the best. The best was a couple of days of it staying on before I gave up and lived with the hillbilly hole in my mouth for the rest of the break.

I should give a little history about my dental care. I have always liked going to the dentist, despite the amount of work I’ve had done over the years. With the exception of one guy who messed up some crowns that had to be fixed by a family friend and required threatening a legal battle, I’ve loved my dentists. 

Including the Brit who filled my tooth without anesthesia in Sierra Leone. 

And the one who accidentally broke my tooth in half during a root canal leaving me one molar down on the bottom right side of my mouth. 

Oh wait, I’m just remembering one I didn’t love—the one who damaged my gums.

But OTHER THAN THAT, I like going to the dentist. One time when the boys were little and Scott was always flying somewhere else in the world, I fell asleep in the chair while they were drilling a tooth because it was the most relaxing alone time I’d had in months.

I don’t have the common fear that others have, but I do have some sneaky anxiety that shows up each time I have to meet a new dentist. I come armed with a script. Here’s what happens in my head when the dentist asks me to open my mouth:

I know I have terrible teeth. Both of my parents have bad teeth. I don’t know if I had fluoride in my water growing up, but I’m guessing not. My whole mouth is a mess. I’m sorry. I know it’s bad. And don’t ask me when stuff happened because I’ve had so much done that I don’t remember. I’d have to think really hard about what state I lived in let alone what year it was, and I’d probably be wrong about it. There’s a tooth missing in the back. I think I’ve had four root canals? Basically, all of the teeth in the back have crowns or fillings. That chip is when I bit into a staple trying to get it out of a stack of paper. I know that was stupid. I had three different dentists tell me I was an aggressive brusher, so I use an electric toothbrush. I have a waterpik in the shower. I floss a lot, but I could probably floss more. And I know there’s one spot in my gums that recedes way more than the rest of my mouth. There’s nothing I can do about that. But I’ll tell you that story if you want to hear it.

The reason this script exists is because I’ve had to use it out loud. Repeatedly. Even the dentists I have loved have asked me the questions that require these answers. Even though I understand intellectually that they are just doing their job and that I am trying my best, I still feel this inexplicable, heavy shame.

For several dentists in a row, I was prescribed special toothpaste and given all kinds of strategies to heal gum disease in a spot on the top left. I flossed. I used the toothpaste. I used medicine. I brushed. I prayed. I worried I was going to get an infection that went to my brain. 

And then I went to a new dentist and explained that part of The Story—that ever since this crown was there, this one part of my gum line had been infected despite the rest of my gums being perfectly healthy. He told me that there had to be something wrong with the crown, but the only way we could know for sure would be to take the crown off. That might require a new crown. And a hefty bill. Years into this, I said absolutely.

After years of telling myself that I was not doing enough, I learned that the dentist who had molded that particular crown had left a sharp point that was digging into my gums. That poorly made crown had been protecting my nerve and hurting me at the same time. My hygiene, my effort, would never have healed that spot in my gums without taking the crown out.

So this week when I saw my new dentist, I was ready to tell The Story. I was going to add that I have always been good about keeping my six-month appointments, but that it had been a full year since my last cleaning because I missed one during our summer move and then had to wait months to get an appointment.

But before I could say any of that, the dentist walked in and looked at my x-rays. She said, “The hygienist said everything looks great except for this crown we need to address. Let’s have a look.”

I was stunned. No lecture about how I should be flossing more? Is she not worried about that spot in my gum line? What do you mean by everything? MY MOUTH IS A MESS.

And that last part spilled out of my brain and through my mouth. “Yeah, I’m not having any other issues, but my mouth is kind of a mess—I mean, you can see on the x-rays—”

“You’re mouth is fine.”

“I’ve had like three or four root canals. One of them ended in a cracked tooth that is now missing.”

“Oh yeah, I see that,” she waved her hand as if to brush my words away. “You’re mouth is fine. I wish I had your teeth.” And then she went on to tell me her story about how she grew up in a part of the world without medical care. Her childhood was one without any knowledge about dental hygiene. She definitely didn’t have fluoride in the water she drank. With a laugh, she added that the water wasn’t even particularly clean. 

“I have thirteen root canals behind this mask.” She told me to open wide and added, “And that is why we are thankful for dentists.”

Friends. Let me take a minute to gather myself here.

Over the last few years, life threw me into the deep end of the trauma pool without floaties. Before becoming a foster parent, I had a dime-store psychology version of what trauma is and does to our brains, but through copious amounts of studying and walking with kids daily who are processing trauma, I’ve learned a good deal about my own trauma responses.

Knowing more has led me to appreciate the power of telling our stories. Storytelling invites empathy from the listener and creates a sense of authority for the teller. The result is that we are able to own our stuff instead of our stuff owning us. There is a deeper level to storytelling, though, that is a crucial part of healing. 

We have to teach ourselves to tell better stories. Our stories need to evolve. Is it true that my gums were in bad shape at one point? Yes. But are they now? No. They healed. So much so that my new hygienist would never have known there was a problem if I hadn’t told her. And that healing has to be part of my story too.

How many of us are telling old stories? How many of us are describing ourselves as flat, one-dimensional characters? How terrible would a book be if you read to a moment of climactic conflict in chapter five, turned the page, and saw that you were back at chapter one?

We get to tell better stories.

We get to write new chapters.

We get to move away from the pain and into healing until the pain is a prologue.

I’m getting a new crown next week. And when I got up from the chair, I asked the dental assistant where the old one was. After keeping track of it for the last three weeks, I wanted to take it with me. 

She looked at me with smiling eyes and said, “You don’t need it.”

Out with the old, in with the new.

Happy New Year, friends.