Dentists, anxiety, and escapism

 

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If I as a carrot-top at twelve ....

ad a nine o’clock appointment with an endodontist today. Groan—everyone knows what that means. It was double jeopardy because I am so self-indulgent about my sleep these days. Sophie got me up at 6:45, but on a normal day, I would have gone back to sleep for an hour or more. Today I didn’t dare.

I confess that I am dental phobic, but I think if you are my age and you had much dental work done as a youngster, you probably feel the same way. When I was twelve or around there, I had multiple cavities—and today I still sport some gold crowns from those days. Our dentist was a shirt-tail relative, Uncle Walt. When I was grown, I came to love Uncle Walt but when I was young, he frightened me—he was taciturn which is something I hadn’t encountered before. And the drill in those days was loud and slow and clumsy. Dentistry has come a long way. But my memories have not kept pace.

When I called for this appointment, I was asked if I wanted a consultation or a procedure. No brainer there—a consultation. I wanted to check out my options. I liked the dentist a lot immediately. He was open, friendly, understanding—and unbending.

Dr. Yeltsin: Did someone tell you that you might need a root canal?

Me: Yes, but I’m hoping you’ll tell me I don’t.

Dr. Yeltsin: You do.

He answered my questions: he only works one chair at a time, so when he was working on me, I would be his only patient. I could call for a brief time out any time I felt I had to. Given no complications, it would take no more than thirty minutes. All good.

Before I got to his office, I was a basket case of nerves. I truly thought Jordan would have to shovel me into the car. But it’s like they say with anxiety patients—you can be a trembling mass of jelly inside, but on the outside, you are calm and collected. The whole thing got me to thinking, again, about my anxiety. It’s not that I’m afraid of pain—through an extreme hip condition, a torn rotator cuff, chronic kidney disease, and who knows what else, I have demonstrated a tolerance for pain and discomfort that has led my kids to scold me. But what I am afraid of is fear.

I am afraid of being afraid.

If I could walk into the dentist’s office without a qualm, I’d be great. But I can’t. Instead I feel a strange disconnection from reality, almost as though I will faint. Sometimes my stomach rebels, as it did today, and I fear embarrassing but urgent need for the bathroom. It’s a whole set of physical symptoms I cannot control.

Tonight there was a thread on a writers’ listserv that I follow about not being able to write during trauma. Authors wrote about their inability to write while a close relative was dying or some other great trauma was upsetting their lives. Knock on wood I’ve not had that kind of great trauma, except perhaps divorce which left me alone with four children, or, of course, the death of my parents. But I have instead found writing a refuge in troubled times.

Writing fiction allows me to escape into the world of my characters, away from the world that is troubling me. For instance, Kelly of the Kelly O’Connell Mystery Series has a husband she loves, two daughters she adores, a close circle of friends, and a good career as a real estate broker and renovation expert. Would that my life was so perfect. But even when Kelly must deal with death and deceit, I find her world comforting. I like the people. I am comfortable with them. They have an insular world without root canals and heart monitors and a lot of daily “stuff” that bothers me.

Granted, that’s sort of a superficial view. Today’s world has so much trauma—pandemic, Ukraine, an appalling divisiveness that has taken hold of our country. It’s maybe trivial to say I can escape into my fictional worlds, but the truth is when I wake at three in the morning worrying about Ukraine President Zelensky and the assassination attempts he has survived, I go to Irene’s culinary world in Chicago. That diva can be really distracting.

Is that ignoring the seriousness of our world? I don’t think so. I speak out often and clearly about my political and moral beliefs. But at three in the morning, I also look out for myself.

False alarm and other matters

Thanks to all for good wishes, but my dental emergency disappeared—does that happen to emergencies? I am crediting it to either the power of prayer or magic—take your pick. This morning, there was no tenderness, no sign of all the unusual stuff going on in my mouth yesterday. Dutifully, being an obedient girl remembering the dentistry of my young years, I called the dentist office. The assistant who answered didn’t seem too interested in making me an appointment. “Well, if you really think . . .” I decided I didn’t really think I needed to see the doctor immediately. I am not fooling myself. I know that it could flare again, but for now, it’s okay.

When I was young, twelve or thirteen, I had a lot of cavities, for which I credit my father. Like him, I  had poor enamel on my teeth. Dentistry then was not what it is today, and the drill was a slow, cumbersome, excruciating thing. My family dentist was a family friend—outside the office he was Uncle Walt—but he was taciturn, which didn’t help my discomfort during many many procedures. Later, I learned to appreciate him with some affection, but to this day I remain sort of dental phobic. Today, at least temporarily, was a huge relief.

So I stayed home, worked, and in a fit of energy, prepared the chicken filling for pocket sandwiches for a lunch guest tomorrow. I’ve had this recipe in my untried repertoire forever, always wanted to try it, decided this was the time. But all the while I thought it was chicken salad in a puff pastry dough. Not until I got into making the filling did I realize it was not salad—it’s a meat filling, like an empanada, only chicken and with more Anglo spicing. By that I mean butter, onion, garlic, mushroom, and thyme. It made the cottage smell incredible, and when Jordan came out hours later, her first words were, “It smells good in here.” So tomorrow I fight with the puff pastry. More wishes of good luck are appreciated.

Tonight, I went to dinner with Jean and good friend Betty Boles. We haven’t seen Betty in a while—she fell, had hip replacement surgery, and various other things, including covid precautions, have kept us apart. But it was good to be back together again. We ate at the newly redesigned Tavern. I’m still not sure about some aspects of the redo, but I love the tile floor—a hostess told us it is marble, which made my mind boggle at the cost. As usual, the food was really good—I had been wanting their meatloaf, and it didn’t disappoint. Besides the mashed potatoes, with a reduction sauce from the meatloaf, were delicious. I ordered knowing I wouldn’t eat it all and came home with a generous doggie bag.

Talk at the dinner table ranged over many subjects. For some reason, Jean and I reminisced about our childhood homes. We moved on, of course, to politics and Beto O’Rourke’s announcement today that he is in the governor’s race. I’ve been waiting months for that word, fearing Abbott was getting the drop on him in campaigning. But I think Beto is wily, knew what he was doing. All evidence now suggests he has a well-thought-out campaign planned and is jumping right into it. An Austin columnist I read tonight quoted an Abbott press-release with fear rhetoric about how all Texans must fight against the dangerous liberalism that Beto represents. No specifics, no policy talk, just vague generalities about threats. Beto on the other hand is already talking about the missed opportunities for expanded medical care for our citizens because Abbott would not accept increased Federal help, the dangers of ignoring the grid and the possibility of another power failure this winter, the danger of having an unlicensed, untrained population carrying  guns anywhere and everywhere, the failure of Abbott to deal efficiently with the pandemic which has resulted in the loss of thousands of Texas lives. Beto has specific talking points; Abbott has vague looming threats of “dangerous liberalism.”

A confession: I took a Pew Research Council survey, and the results showed that six percent of the American population is more liberal than I am. That, of course, leaves ninety-four percent on the other side of the line. Christian said, “That’s about right.” But I think there must have been a mistake. As I rant and rave about injustices and blind stupidity in this world, I think there must be more people who agree with me. If not, please don’t burst my little bubble.

Y’all have a good night. As my mom always said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

An accidental experiment and other trivia

Last night I accidentally performed a little social media experiment. I posted a blog—nothing spectacular, just cheeseburger soup (so good on the first cool night, even though cool hadn’t yet quite hit), some thoughts that struck me in church yesterday, and comments on a church Connection luncheon we went to. The point was to connect with other members, and I thought it a great idea. Anyway, today I did not get one like nor one comment, and I guess I’ve gotten spoiled and used to feedback.

So I checked. I had neglected to put the post on Facebook. If you want to read it you can find it at https://judys-stew.blogspot.com/2019/10/could-fall-really-be-here.html But it demonstrates to me that a big part of my audience is on Facebook. In Sisters in Crime and other groups, there’s always debate about the usefulness of Facebook, but one comforting bit of social media advice I like is to do what is comfortable for you. So I have given up trying to master Instagram and I don’t do much other than post on Twitter, but I am really vocal on Facebook—and that includes occasional advertising in the form of “boosting” posts. So my experiment kind of confirmed what I do.

Another bit of cyberspace wisdom I picked up yesterday; two friends said they had tried to order So Far from Paradise and were told it was unavailable. So I ordered a free sample as a test—no problem. Then I called Amazon. It seems you cannot always order all books from an iPhone of iPad app. So my advice to readers: if you try that and get word the book you want is unavailable, order it from your computer. As an author, I wonder how many sales lots of us have lost because that fact isn’t commonly known.

Not much spectacular today, except that I got a routine dental appointment out of the way. Dentistry brings out my anxiety, and I tried to explain it to the hygienist: when I was a young teen, I had lots of cavities (poor enamel inherited from my dear father, whom I otherwise loved a lot). Our dentist was an uncle (by adoption if not blood), a taciturn man who scared me. Plus dentistry sixty-five or so years ago was not as smooth as it is today, and I still have a real dental phobia. So grateful that Jordan drove me and picked me up, that Stephanie the hygienist is such a good soul, and that my teeth are good enough the cleaning was brief, and I got a clean bill of health.

My day ended with a most pleasant happy hour with friends—one of those small world situations. I honestly thought we met on Facebook but Mary Kay Hughes tells me years ago she and her mother came to a reading group I conducted through TCU’s Community Education programs. But we also have our church and our politics in common, plus she works with Christian, and her husband proved to share all our convictions and more knowledge than I had about some of them. An evening of lively and interesting discussion.

I am heartsick tonight about withdrawal of troops from Syria and the almost instant bombing by Turkey, though I don’t think we know the truth of the situation yet. What does seem clear is that the orange one, he of “great wisdom,” let himself be hornswoggled again. He has not the faintest idea of the cost in human lives—ours and Kurdish—of his impulsive acts and lack of negotiating ability. But I won’t belabor the point—it’s all over the internet, and we will have to let the true facts sort themselves out. Tonight, my prayers for the Kurdish people and for our troops in the region.

Anxiety, Depression, and Robin Williams

I think everyone in the country has had their say about Robin Williams today--the high quality of hilarity he brought into our lives, the tragedy of his death, dealing with depression. It's been dissected from all angles, and I swore I wasn't going to add to the babble. Yet I can't help myself. I want to speak out.
Of all the Facebook posts I've seen today, most seem to miss the point that dancing fast is a way to hide from depression. For all his clever craziness, comedy was probably always a mask that Williams used to hide himself from his desperation. I think many of the silliest, funniest people we know in our daily lives are doing the exact same thing. What so many Americans can't seem to grasp is how common anxiety and depression are. I know first-hand.
I awoke about five this morning feeling anxious and made myself lie there and analyze what was causing this mild anxiety. I could quickly pin it down: I had a dental appointment this morning, which I always dread. Memories of my childhood come roaring back--I had bad teeth and lots of cavities in the days before high-speed drills and painless dentistry. Our dentist was a taciturn man but also one of my uncles--not blood but close enough to the family that he was called "Uncle Walt." As an adult, I learned to appreciate and value him; as a kid, I was terrified. I survived today's appointment with good grace I think.
The other was my new computer which is causing me grief because I can't get around it the way I could the old one. I'm slower, can't find some sites, don't know how to keep several sites open at one time, though I think that should be easy.
It was, as I said, mild anxiety. But there was a period in my life when I was housebound with anxiety, afraid to drive anywhere, afraid to be alone. I've worked hard to get where I am--still don't drive on the highway, don't like self-service elevators if I'm alone, can't do escalators, lots of lingering fears but few of them crippling. The biggest one is a fear of going new places alone in case I meet an elevator or set of steps without railings that I can't handle. Yes, my legendary lack of balance is purely anxiety driven. And I can't explain the truly helpless feeling when a panic attack takes over. To people who say, "Buck up and get over it," I want to say, "Walk a mile in my moccasins."
Yet I drive around town, live alone and like it, do all kinds of things I once thought I couldn't. I didn't--and don't--want anxiety to define my life. And I don't think it does. I'm fortunate to live a full, busy, and happy life. At the ripe old age of 76, I'm building a new career. It's fun.
Why couldn't Williams also overcome his depression? From what I've read, he worked hard at it all his life. I've never been that depressed, but I can imagine what he felt like just from the few black moments I've experienced. To feel that way constantly would be unbearable. A man must be desperate to leave behind wife, children, career. I understand.
A word about addiction: apparently Williams was sober for twenty years and then started drinking again. It's another common way people hide their depression, though it often just adds to the problem. I drink too much wine, I know it. But I control it because I more desperately don't want to feel bad in the morning. I knew one out-and-out alcoholic--he worked for me and nearly drove me crazy. But in retrospect I recognize PTSD, and I grieve for him too, as I grieve for Williams and the pain he endured, for his family, for all of us. And I've still got a tiny bit of anxiety because there's something I haven't done but should do--it just won't come to the front of my consciousness.