Dear Hearts,
Aunt Faerie took Papa to the “city” nearby (25 minutes) to get new pants. The Men’s Tailor Shoppe has been there for years and they tailor your clothes to fit you.
So, I am alone. Alone. I used the bathroom and left the door open. I miss that.
So, I vacuum or write. I chose writing. The dirt will still be in the carpets tomorrow—but who knows, this post may be a masterpiece that I can only create today, now.
HA.
I survived the tooth extraction! No dry socket! (Dry socket is when the blood cloth or scab over the extracted tooth’s hole, doesn’t stay in place and the bone and nerves of other teeth are exposed. It can be very serious). I think I have even passed the window for dry socket. And, I did not smoke for a little over 24 hours after my tooth was yanked out of my head. It was a big fucking tooth with three full roots. It’s not meant to come out.
The local dentist recommended this guy in “the city” and I walked out before he could even touch me. He was like some little deformed dwarf man or evil leprechaun. He reminded me of that re-programmer guy from the The Path—not good. People who have physical deformities do not deserve ire or jokes at their expense. However, this doctor—it was like his condescending, arrogant, glib, rude attitude had deformed him like Chillingsworth from The Scarlet Letter.
After having it out with nurse Ratchet I left and told Dr. Dwarf: I don’t like you.
From the beginning I had a bad feeling. I was somewhat prepared to walk out if necessary. I entered this dingy, dark building and literally had to feel my way up the stairs. Even though it was broad daylight, the place taken over by shadows. I had to call from the second floor amidst a warren of unmarked doors and ask where they were in the building.
Met by a greasy-haired receptionist with bad teeth. Um, not confidence inspiring. I have acne issues—but when I am work, I cover it up. I don’t want my oral surgeon’s receptionist to look like the local Meth-Head hanging out at Dollar General.
I am a fairly tall woman—5’8”—but Nurse Ratchet was towering. She is the kind of person who work in a Nut House and man-handle out-of-control patients. In fact, I am sure that was her former job and she was fired because she was fun torturing the patients.
I had this big form to fill out. Have you ever had…” a serious illness?”
Sincerely, I asked, “What do you mean by serious illness?”
Dr. Dwarf’s laugh sound liked acrylic nails on metal grating. “There are thousands of them.” HA-HA!
Okay.
Nurse Ratchet was there.
“You can take your book bag into the room with you, but you have to leave your jacket and coat out here.”
My book bag? You mean my Tommy Hilfiger stylish knap-sack/purse? (Way easier to carry when going to the movies by yourself and you have to use the Ladies’ Room—you can put it on your back and smuggle in a banana, water, and bagel.)
“Why can’t I just have all my stuff together?” I asked.
“Because the surgery room is sterile.” She sneered. “No one will I touch it. I will watch them myself. You can take your book bag.”
Okay, so my book bag—12 year olds carry book bags, not 40 year olds who could pass for early 30s. So, my book bag is sterile, but not my coat and official GOP hat that I stole from T? That hat is an original from a Republican National Convention. Hey, after all the shit I took from him, I at least deserved a hat.
Sterile book bag, but my coat and hat not sterile. I never went to med school, but…
The operating chair/gurney was torn and old. I think they got it from a 1960s back alley abortion clinic. I sit.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“No! If you wanted to ask questions, you should have made a consultation appointment.”
“Excuse me, you won’t answer any questions before my surgery?”
“No!”
“What about aftercare instructions?”
“I won’t tell you until you have your tooth pulled. After surgery.”
Now, I heading toward the door with me book bag. “I am out of here.”
“Now, wait.” I can feel her eyes roll back in her head. “Whaaaat questions do you have?”
“What precautions do you take against dry socket?”
Let me, remind you that the tooth in question was the last molar on my upper left side. I had $10,000 nose and sinuses from non-elective surgery in 2010. No one is going to fuck my $10,000 face up. That four months’ painful. Oh, yes, and Arthur lost two days’ wages by taking me to the hospital and staying home an extra day. Never mind the fact that he had only work MAYBE two years of our marriage.
I could see Nurse Ratchet’s mind working—reaching back into her shoddy medical training to remember what dry socket was.
“Do you use a sedative wrap or stitches?” Thank you, WebMD.
“A what?”
I explained further.
“No! Stitches cause dry socket.”
“I am a smoker and a primary caregiver, I am under so much stress. How long do I have to not smoke for?”
“Two weeks,” Dr. Dwarf replied coming near the room.
“Pardon me? That is not fucking acceptable. Forget it.”
I had read 72 hours max. Smoking DOES NOT cause dry socket because of those “filthy toxins,” but because of repetitive straw-like inhaling. If you smoke, you know what I mean.
I turn around and Ratchet is right there. I guaran-fucking-tee you that she had a straight jacket stuffed down her ample bosom.
“We are doctors. We tell you what is right.”
“Maybe you will be one of the lucky ones!” She laughed.
“I am fucking out of here.” Now I had on my coat, GOP had, and stylish Tommy bag.
“Why,” asked the doctor laughing like a junior high school boy at the word “penis.”
“Because I don’t like you.”
“Why?”
Here is where I could have had SO MUCH better of a comeback, but I just didn’t. I really was full on panic attack at this point.
“Because you laughed at me. When I asked you an example of a serious illness, you laughed at me. There are thousands, you said.”
“Well, there are!”
“No fucking duh.”
Door slam.
I could have done so much better than “No fucking duh.” But, that’s what came out.
When I got home I looked up Dr. Dwarf on line and found several reviews echoing my experience exactly.
Monday, I Googled oral surgeons in the “Real City” near us (an hour away an nationally known) and found a name I liked. I just felt good about his name. I called. I was upfront. I told the receptionist what happened with the other surgeon. I also added that my last oral surgeon was criminally charged with sexual abuse toward his patients who were under anesthesia. True.
The receptionist assured me that Dr. Walter was nothing like that and they would do the consult and the extraction the same day. They would not push me into anything. But, she did say that he would lecture me on smoking.
I was totally shaking by the time I got to Dr. Walter a week late. And, in fucking pain. My filling had falling out and my teeth grinding had cracked that tooth, so that when the filling came out—the nerves were like right there.
I told him how stressed and scared I was. He didn’t lecture me on smoking. He knew that would not be helpful.
“Can you give me 24 hours?” he asked with a smile.
“I can do 24 hours,” I said.
After a very pressure-comforting face mask, some nitrous (early V-Day gift from Mom and Dad), stitches, and a compassionate doctor who saw me as a scared, stressed woman with a rosary she pulled out her bra.
“That’s important,” he said.
“I don’t go to Mass every week, but I talk to God every day,” I said ashamed.
“That is very important. That’s what matters. You will be fine. We have not had a case of dry socket in seven years. With the smoking—just give me 24 hours.”
He saw me. He made me feel cared for and protected. By the time I went to bed with the help of Earl Grey tea bags in my new toothless hole (his suggestion)—I wasn’t bleeding by the time I went to bed and I slept better than I had in two days. He gave me his home phone number.
I found myself wanting to please him—I can give him more than 24 smoke-free hours I thought.
Why, why did I want to please Dr. Walter?
For the same reasons kids wants to please parents or teachers—because they know that adult is sincere and cares, like really cares. In a follow up phone call, he asked me how my run went. (I wanted to get clearance for when I could run.)
I told my students:
“I’m not so much more brilliant than all of you. Well, actually I am. And I have $100,000 worth of college on you.” I’d smirk. “And rarely do I tell you that there is a right a wrong answer or perspective, but as far as the state tests go—I know what you need to do to pass them. I have never had a student try his best and fail. I have faith that all of you can past the test. (A little lie former and latter.) But, you have to listen to me on this. I know what you have to do. And, I am going to tell you exactly what to do to pass the test.”
And, often they did “try to please me.”
I did care. That’s why I burned out. That’s why I couldn’t teach the bullshit I was being asked to before me breakdown.
I trust and respect Dr. Walter because he SAW and HEARD me. I want to “be good for him.”
Funny, that’s how I treated the women at Burning Bed, but the staff didn’t see or hear me at all. Neither have the men I've loved--excluding family. But, maybe the bigger question is do I see and hear myself?
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
Grateful For:
Pie
Movie Night
Family
Health
Angel
A Home
Dr. Walter
Temperate running weather
Colored pencils
Cross stitch
