I should start by explaining that Tim and I had been going to our beloved Dr Tess for almost a decade — a very long relationship for me and a dentist.
I’d find a dentist (and even more important, a staff hygienist) I liked and trusted not to do me grievous bodily harm, and settle in for as many years as possible. Then they would move, or we would move, or they’d replace the pleasant, non-judgmental hygienist with a heartless, critical sadist, and I would revert to dental phobia, and swear off any dentistry beyond my own ragged toothbrush.
Timothy would seek out some new practitioner, and lure me into going to see them, “just to check out the vibe,” and I would be slowly coaxed back into seeing a dentist regularly. The first five visits would be a severe test of my willingness and their patience, because the intervening years of avoidance would have wreaked havoc on my teeth or gums or both.
I loved Dr Tess beyond any previous dentist because she had a laser dentistry practice, which meant very little screeching-whining-zzzizzing noise but instead a quiet pock-pock-pock as the laser did its thing against decay or ancient fillings. (Tess said the only people who didn’t prefer the laser’s noises were police, who thought it sounded like a taser charging up. Who can say?) She even applied it, at a low level, to soothe the scar I’d acquired in the brain surgery that took out my acoustic neuroma in 2014.
She closed her practice on short notice in the fall of 2017. Tim was still up and about at the time, and so we went, a package deal, to see the dentist she’d redirected her clientele to. We went together a couple of times, in fact, and with Timothy’s determined encouragement and Dr P’s kindly noncommittal explanations, I even got my front teeth fixed — a thing every dentist had been nagging me about for 30 years.
But I fell back into my evil, phobic ways after Timothy passed. We were due to go, together, in October… Instead, I was burying him at White Eagle. I could not face the appointment the next week without him, and cancelled. And rebuffed. And ignored. Until, upon the anniversary of his passing, I heard Tim in my ear saying, “Come on, they’re nice people, you like them, they won’t be mean to you about the flossing thing… I promise.”
I believed him. And went. And Shelly was and didn’t. She stopped just short of giving me a lollipop for being brave enough to sign on for a second appointment, back to back, as I was still sat in the chair, so she could hammer the second row of teeth “since you’re doing so well, really truly you are.” I believed her, too.
So, sore in mouth, but down from four appointments to two, I thank Timothy for giving me the spirit to be brave. Oh, and Shelly for the six jabs of novocaine that allowed me to believe I really was brave.