The power of dental dread

Last week, I went to the orthodontist for yet another exam and braces-tightening. I’ve been doing this every eight to 10 weeks for more than two years now and I’m still not used to it.

During this particular appointment, the ortho lamented my jaw’s lack of progress (me too, lady). She then jammed a small metal file in between my teeth and scraped back and forth, which is akin to hearing nails scratch a chalkboard — only in your mouth and with the addition of agony.

Just before I fled the chair, the ortho took a moment to compliment my behavior, saying she was impressed by how I had handled my more recent appointments.

As I mentioned at the time, my first dental visits since the fainting spell that broke my face involved undergoing brutal procedures that left me trembling and crying. Every subsequent visit has been slightly easier since I know what to expect, and more terrible, since I know what to expect. For example, I always keep yogurt and mashed potatoes in the house now because after each visit, my teeth and gums hurt so much that I’m unable able to chew food for a few days.

There’s also the dread factor. The orthodontist’s office sends me a text and an email in advance of each appointment to remind me that I have more misery to endure. The moment those confirmation notices appear on my electronic devices, apprehension sinks into my bones. Which means I’m anxious before I even arrive and stressed during the experience itself. The post-work pain only reinforces that.

So, when she praised my newfound ability to hide my feelings, I responded by pointing out all of the above. What I should’ve said was “thank you.” (Apparently, my ability to be graceful and diplomatic goes right out the window when I’m suffering teeth torture.)

Needless to say, the ortho is skilled at her job. I have no doubt she means well. And I truly appreciate all of the hard work that she and the dentist and the periodontist and their techs have done to put my mouth back together. But when this whole rigamarole is over, I hope to never step foot in their offices ever again.

When the sun rose this morning, I noticed something deeply troubling.

Footprints in the snow.

For the past week or so, the temperatures have climbed into the 30s and 40s, causing much of our beautiful winter snowscape to dissolve into a disgusting grey sludge. As is usual in this part of New England, Spring’s preview has turned our driveway into a muddy mess pockmarked by deep pools of rain water and snow melt. Then on Thursday, the air cooled and all that water turned to ice, making the prospect of leaving the house altogether unappealing.

To my delight, it started to snow on Friday night, a light dusting that covered the landscape with clean whiteness. But as I was admiring Winter’s last hurrah, I spotted a set of footprints on the front lawn. There were no dog prints nearby so I’m guessing they weren’t made by M. Nor do the deep manly indentions head to the front door. These prints lead straight to the living room window.

Some time between yesterday and today, some unwanted stranger has been peering into our house.

Once M’s awake, I plan to ask him about the markings. I’m hoping the prints are his, and that he was simply looking behind the bushes for a lost dog toy. Because the alternative? Well, that sends real chills down my spine.

–Update: Turns out they were M’s footprints. He created the imprints while taking this picture of the bush right in front of our living room window. Whew!

(Photo by Herman Brinkman)