to my daughter
September 9, 2016 § 5 Comments
Earlier this week you were scheduled to have multiple teeth extracted. I anticipated your fear, understood that this appointment would carry the burden of dread. I did not prolong the moment with unwanted reminders. I delivered the news quickly, acknowledging your emotions but underscoring simply the necessity of the appointment with short, staccato statements of must and will.
I let you sulk in the car, distracting myself as much as you with stories from my day. You were a silent companion the entire ride right up to the moment you walked stoically into the office. There was no resistance in your posture, only a quiet unhappiness; a peaceful protest. Fear and frustration coiled tightly in your muscles.
You accommodated each of the technicians’ requests, settling into the directions but holding your body rigid. I sat just out of sight, until the tears came. I understood there was no way to stop the procedure, to interrupt would be disruptive – so I placed my hand on your ankle. Such an insignificant offering to the scale of your muffled misery.
Of course, in this instance, I understood you were safe, but the fear was no less real. Your need to catch your breath and feel in control were tangible. The technicians couldn’t understand that the pain had validated your fears and erased whatever comfort or trust you had tried to offer. Their encouragements were hollow against your experience, so they worked through your emotions alongside you.
Your sounds were a primal language of fear, a flexing of muscle against logic; an uncomfortable demand for permission to claim your needs. I love this about you, your willingness to speak up even in the company of those with more knowledge or strength. I admired the messy, emotional declarations that interrupted the expected and took ownership of your fear with fierce tenderness for your own vulnerability.
You were not silent in pain, but you were no less respectful for your honesty. You did not flail your arms or clench your teeth, but you did not make yourself small either.
You are one of the strongest, most gentle spirits I know. I hope you always speak through your fear and disrupt expectations. I hope you take up space with questions and never settle for rote encouragements.
No one in the room thought less of you for your tears, no one shushed your sounds or undermined your fear. Every inch of your body is your own, to love and protect. Instead they honored the fear, called it by name and gave it weight. When we said you did well, everyone understood that you had not endured the discomfort but found your way to safety.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 
I do not care what anyone says in this world of pain and agony and its ability to take us through trauma like no other.
But that dentist chair is in a world of its own.
My heart goes out to her for her courage, and as you said Marie, her ability to stand in her truth and express it, even under such circumstances.
She has my full respect and love for that.
May they one day find ‘another way’ to heal our teeth 🙂
For years I hid my own fear of the dentist’s chair from my children; it took far too long to recognize that pretending strength does not teach my children to be brave.
That is what we never understand…we give out how we are at any moment in our life. They pick up on the many signals we give out, even before we say anything 🙂
Our truth is what we are, whether cowering on a dentist chair or singing from the rooftops. I have never heard of anyone singing in a dentist chair 😀
But at least if we are our truth, we are trusted and loved because of it, rather than knowing we are being shown a mask, which only dents that trust and builds walls to that love.
That’s really it, isn’t it: we all have to find our own ways to safety, to feeling safe. Lovely musing; I hope your patient is recovering well. We went through the same thing last year, seven extracted in one day. He finished with the sixth and said he could tell that it was too much, told her he was going to stop there and let her come back another day. No, she insisted; finish it. So he did. We all have to find our own safety, and strengthen, each of us, one at a time.
My patient is well, the experience is already a story; one we trade with more humor than emotion.
If I could change one element of the experience it would be to ask the doctors/hygienists/technicians to trade baby talk and rote reassurances for something more genuine. Perhaps “I can tell you are uncomfortable, we’ll be done soon” rather than sing song choruses of “you won’t feel a thing” or “you’re fine.” It’s ok to feel pain, to be scared; brave doesn’t mean fearless.
Of course, they were doing their best in the moment. It’s too easy to critique what we, ourselves, do not have to perform.
Seven had to have been exhausting. It was very brave, indeed, for your daughter to have the fortitude to finish such a procedure when the opportunity for rest must have been so tempting.
That last line of your comment is beautiful. Thank you, Jen.