Today I visited the dental hygienist to have my teeth cleaned. I had a temporary filling in the one tooth. It had been put there 3 days ago because the filling that had been put there a month ago, kept pressing on a nerve, causing continual pain when any pressure was put on it. The temporary filling had worked perfectly and over the weekend I had no pain in the tooth - the first time in over a month. The idea was that the temporary filling was lighter and would allow the nerve to settle and heal, then another permanent filling could be put in place. Hurrah!
So, back to the hygienist. I told her that I was so happy as today would be the last visit to the dentist for at least a month. (When I must have an implant put in.) I told her I was so relieved at this, as I had been forced to come to the dentist every week for a few weeks now, for various fillings etc. I told her how I was not scared of dentists, nor was I scared of pain, but often I would be overwhelmed when visiting the dentist as I had experienced so many problems with my teeth from when I was young. I told her I was grateful this would be the last part of what felt like long haul for me. She started her work, it hurt as it always does with the hygienist, probing into the soft pink of gums with sharpness, repeating it again and again. Scraping and stinging. I paused her, asked her to treat me gently. She smiled.
Then she accidentally pulled out the temporary filling.
I do not know quite what happened. Tears started pouring from my eyes. My head was filled with:
Why the f**k did she even touch the temporary filling? How can this happen? I cannot deal with this Why? Why? Why? I am so tired of all of this. Why am I crying? This is ridiculous I am crumbling
I sat up, tried to control myself. Heard her talking to me. I told her I needed another filling, the nerve was so sensitive. I told her I was sorry I was crying. I told her I needed to wait a bit, as through all of this we were speaking Swedish and I am not fully fluent yet. I knew that I was in a state of high stress, I knew that cortisol and adrenalin were running through my body. I knew that needed to breathe, pause, calm myself, re-align myself. I knew I would have to lie back in the chair and open my mouth again. I knew I just wanted to leave but I couldn’t.
The hygienist went to find my dentist, but she had no free time to come and help. The hygienist said she would put the filling in and someone was coming to help her. I lay back, tears still silently falling from my eyes, I opened my mouth. The cold blasts of air, needed to dry the tooth before the filling, thrummed against the nerve.
My mouth stayed open.
She pushed the filling in against the nerve.
My mouth stayed open.
My dentist came and had a look - she told me if there was no pain, then I could go. I left. My face blotched, my insides crashing, my outsides shaking, I put one foot in front of the other until I arrived home and broke down.
Why?
Why did I have this reaction? This visit to the dentist was not the worst by any means, yet my inability to hold myself ‘together’ was one of the worst. I got home feeling violated, fragmented, exhausted. I have mulled on this, pushed myself against it like my tongue pushing against the rough edges of the filling currently in my mouth. Here is the conclusion I have come to. This visit was not the issue. It was just train engine that braked clumsily into a station; the reason it was de-railed, was due to all the wagons connected to it crashing, smashing and bashing against it as it abruptly stopped. Wagons it had not even realised were there. I think it is time to unpack and name my wagons. If something cannot be named it cannot be changed.
Wagon 1 - Poverty
The picture above is of me aged about 8 - notice the teeth. They are stained and jagged. As a child, I was often bullied and called names because of them. The reason they looked this way was a side effect of the regular injections of oxytetracycline I had as a child. I have vivid memories of the district nurse pulling me out from under the bed, where I would hide. My hair would get caught on the springs, adding to the overall terror. The reason I had the injections was due to experiencing regular bouts of bronchitis. The reason I had regular bouts of bronchitis was due the fact that the house I lived in, until the age of 5, was a slum and classed as ‘unfit for human habitation. As I write this it sounds like a warped version of ‘The House that Jack Built.’ But the bottom line is, poverty caused my ill-health, my ill health led to medication, that medication caused my teeth to be stained and malformed. There is no glamour in poverty. When I read people who try to glamourise it, people who have never fully experienced it, I find myself bristling with such anger. Sometimes it is possible to find humour in poverty, sometimes meaning, occasionally a type of bizarre richness of experience, but never glamour. As soon as I could, I had crowns put on my front teeth to hide the effects of that poverty. (As I was in full-time education I didn’t have to pay.) My teeth however continued to be a challenge, resulting in two lots of surgery, root canal work and coming next month, an implant. Poverty has made my later life rather expensive and I am tired of paying the price.
Wagon 2. Being a ‘Good Girl.’
I was born into a wonderful family and a chaotic family, a joyful family and a scary family. All these things are true at the same time. As the middle child I often found myself the bridge and the peace-maker. My father could sometimes be volatile, my mother had ‘bad nerves’. I had to be good. If I was good then dad would not lose his temper and mom would not have a ‘turn.’ (I now know these were anxiety/panic attacks.) I struggled to speak and became a selective mute.
Be quiet
Stay small
Be good
I was a good girl.
I was a good girl at the doctors.
I was a good girl at the speech therapist.
I was a good girl at the clinic for kids with knock knees.
I was a good girl at the clinic for kids having ultra violet light treatment.
I was a good girl at the dentist. I loved my childhood dentist, she had striped, rainbow coloured socks and soft, comforting breasts that pushed against my head as she worked.
But I now know that being good does not guarantee anything, apart from your compliance. It took me a long time to find my voice, longer still to trust it, longer still to value it. I now voice my boundaries, articulate my needs, vocalise my dislikes. I am proud of this, it is my greatest achievement. Yet I can still be cautious with how I use it, with how I gently curl my words - ‘please be gentle.’ The hygienist wasn’t gentle - she pulled out the filling. Being a ‘good girl’ can end up with you feeling betrayed. You cannot whimper, ‘but I was a good girl.’ Better to be an authentic girl. Better to be a Wildling. I am tired of being a good girl.
Wagon 3. Thinking Linear.
We are sold the myth of the linear - that there is a beginning, a middle and an end. It is a lie. There is never really and end, just a continuation and often a repetition and so life continues until the actual end. I just wanted an end to the problem with my teeth. I also want an end to my financial insecurity and anxiety. I want an end to the genocide in Palestine - please God let that be an end. Yet in so many ways the ends are not the ends, just the beginnings of something else.
Joseph Campbell sold us a false truth in his concept of The Hero’s Journey - there is really no point in our lives, when we can sit on our throne and say we are complete in our lives - another journey/quest will beckon. I do not think this is a negative thing, just a truth thing. I find more truth in the myth of Inanna; Sumerian Goddess of the Morning star and Goddess of the Evening Star. She who descended into the Underworld through 7 gates, removing 7 items of power at each one. Naked she entered the Underworld and was judged by her sister Erishkigal, Goddess of the Underworld. Inanna became a piece of meat hanging on a hook. However, she was remembered and she was brought back to life and ascended once more. Upon reaching the surface she was told that someone would have to take her place in the Underworld for 6 months of the year. She saw that everybody had lamented her absence except for her lover/brother, Dumuzi. So he was forced into the Underworld for 6 months of the year. During that time she laments him and nothing grows on the earth, when he arises, so does spring and the earth is fecund again. This is what Campbell missed - there is always a price to pay and life is a cycle: the seasons, the moon, the tides, a woman’s blood - not linear - cyclical, until we centrifugally spin nearer and nearer towards the Truth - which is the meeting place of all things. Included in this is the truth that I will never have an ‘end’ to work being done on my teeth, not until I die. I am tired of this.
I have to go back to the dentist. I am ringing tomorrow as the filling that replaced the filling, that replaced the filling, is super sensitive. I am not surprised, life is built on cycles you know. At least at the next visit I will not be dragging so many un-named carriages in with me. I wonder what carriages might crash into you when you least expect them…?
Oh Katrice, what important reflections that speak to my soul. Thanks for sharing! I hope you at least get a sticker from the dentist x
Thank you for writing this, dear Katrice. The collapses that take us by surprise are always the interesting ones. Tooth pain is like no other pain. I think anyone would have cried, even without the wagons. Thank you for your insights and reflections. X