The Dentist

For three weeks I've been dreading today's dentist appointment.  More than I've ever dreaded one in the past.

I really like my dentist and the whole office staff.  And I think about writing them a letter to tell them so.  But about every other year she seems to think I have a cavity or two.  This year she felt like I should have two.  On opposite sides of my mouth, of course.

So I'm a redhead at heart, though it is not so apparent as I've aged and have moved to the Midwest where the sun does not lighten my hair as it does in California.

I mention this because redheads can sometimes have a hard time getting numb or staying asleep with anaesthetic.  It has happened to me.  More than once.  I woke up during a foot surgery, yes I did, and told them I could feel them tugging at my foot.  And I have felt the horrific pain of the dentist's drill.  Thus I dread, dread, dread having a cavity filled.

The emotional buildup over the last three weeks overflowed from the corners of my eyes as I laid back in the dentist's chair today.  She was wiping away my tears.  I was wiping away my tears.  And then when it was all over and she sat me up, the streams burst forth.  It was not pretty with my numb face.  The dentist laughed at me.  Which always feels nice when you're in the depths of despair.

Meanwhile, Peter was in the next cubicle getting four fillings.  You'd think we suck on sugar sticks all day.  So I compose myself and we walk up to the front counter to pay our bill, sniffing a little bit.

Five hundred seventy-six dollars.  Oh my.  I cried a little more in the car.

This all reminded me of the one and only time I tried to donate blood.  I mentally geared up for days and days.  Maybe weeks.  I can't remember.  But I didn't want to do it.  But I was going to be tough.  Tough!

Newly married Paul and I go to the blood place and we fill out the forms and wait and I'm all tense and almost sick.  Then they take me back and prick my finger to test my blood and turns out my iron was low so I would not be able to give blood after all.

Do you know what happened next?  I cried.  I went and found Paul all hooked up and reclining, like he'd done twenty times before.  He and his high school friends supposedly would go give blood together.  For fun.

So I'm at Paul's side trying to hold in my blubbering, "They won't let me give blood."  Kind of funny that I was now crying because I couldn't give blood.  But all that emotional energy of trying to be tough was wasted.  It had to be released somehow.

So that is how I'm feeling tonight.  All bleh because of long-term dread build-up and the anticipation of pain.

The good part (there's always a good part, right?) is that we will soon be fixing Jawa Jive Milkshakes on page 20 of the Stars Wars Cookbook.

The cavity-fighting milkshakes.

By the by, Paul has been having a good time lately labeling everyone's problems (mine mostly) as 'first world problems' thus denying me any sympathy and devaluing my problem.  So if you'd like to offer sympathy, empathy, or a simple "there, there", please do.  I'm  not getting any love here.