I am an adult

I recently hit a big number in birthdays. I'm much closer to 40 than I am to 30 now, and feeling a bit awkward as I survey the sum of my parts. In my heart I'm still 16, though my body's showing its wear and tear, through having a baby and quitting smoking and being a professional chef for a while. Spiritually I'm in my early 30's, with a new optimism on life and maturity, while there is an emotional 8 year old cowering in the corner at every loud noise and harsh word.

Well, the almost-40 me woke up on her birthday a few weeks ago and realized with some disgust: I'm too old to be this afraid of the dentist.

I haven't been to the dentist in 17 years. That last time, I had my two bottom wisdom teeth removed. I can remember a silent scream welling up and sticking in my throat for the hours (years, lifetimes) it took him to extract the two teeth, with the horrid noise and invasion of the whole process. I haven't been back since. Not for a cleaning, not for a filling, nothing. I let my two top wisdom teeth decay up there, rather than go get them removed. I was positive I had major damage all through my mouth, and would have to have root canals, and scalings, and all sorts of positively medieval tortures whenever pain drove me to the dentist.

Since we're about to go to America for six weeks and France for three, I was determined to get my wisdom teeth taken care of beforehand. I sent out an embarrassed email to the local mother's group and a flood of emails came back; so many women are, like me, terrified of going to the dentist. Many of them recommended various local dentists and some emails simply asked me to pass on the recommendations if I found one I could stand. Several recommendations came either from the dentist herself, or from a dentist's wife; I disregarded those as not objective enough for my terrified self. One dentist's name was recommended more than once, so I chose her.

It took me a week to gather up the courage to call her -- and of course, she was going on vacation and wouldn't be available until the 17th. I'd shot myself in the foot with my dilly-dallying. But lo and behold, yesterday afternoon her office called and asked if I could come around 6:30 that evening and in a fit of courage I agreed.

I warned her. She smiled and laughed and said she would not hurt me. But oh do I hate having my teeth cleaned. To my amazement, the trouble with my two front bottom teeth was tartar, not decay, and the frightening blackness between the two teeth was a filling, not a cavity. Talk about blocking out an experience, I don't remember getting a filling there. Considering I stopped going to the dentist when I was eight, went once when I was 16 and again when I was 21... you'd think I'd remember a filling. It must have been a horrible experience. My mind keeps trying to wrap itself around the memory, only to slide off, puzzled and perplexed.

My husband sat with me the whole time, he who is equally afraid of work done on his own mouth. My gums are in good shape, my teeth cleaned up nicely, albeit stained from coffee. My body ached from the strain and tension, tears leaked from my covered eyes, my Walkman valiantly tried to choose songs to keep my spirits up. It kept picking songs by Bowie and The Tears, my beloved Suede's newest incarnation. I have a new appreciation for the music. My hands clenched tight around tissues, slowly releasing tension whenever I remembered to breathe.

My greatest discomfort, besides novacaine, is the noise dentistry makes inside my head. Once the cleaning was done, I could relax and let her pull out the two teeth with incredible calm and surrender. She had listened to my horror stories of novacaine hurting more than the procedures did, and used something else to numb my mouth past the point of caring. She let me take a break whenever I needed to, and only once did I bite the suction thing. She spoke kindly, calmly to me, with the most wonderful brown eyes, dark enough that pupil and iris were one and the same, crinkling merrily most of the time, softening with concern whenever I expressed the tiniest bit of discomfort. She joked about my 'sexy mouth', such tiny lips! Apparently, whatever kind of mouth I have is shit for dentistry but much prized in the Filipino community. At once point I thought she was going to have to brace a foot against my ribcage to get the last root out, and started laughing when it was unwise to do so... She thought I was crying, poor thing, and I had to have them take all the equipment out of my mouth so I could explain.

She kept the use of the drill to a minimum, for which I am eternally grateful. I'm a new woman today. I am resolved to go back to her when we come back from our summer exodus, and have my cavities filled. I am resolved to having my teeth cleaned every six months. I'm looking forward to a healthy mouth that I will gift with white teeth sometime next year.

I'll be one year shy of 40. I think white, healthy teeth will be a fine birthday gift.