CROWN ME WITH FLOWERS

Like I always say, we survivors never stop healing.  Or learning.  

That became even more clear to me over the past few weeks.  For the first time ever, I had to have some dental work done, outside of the usual cleanings and occasional fillings.  Hey, after years of orthodonture as a child, I take care of my teeth!  I don’t have many fillings, and most of the ones I do have are about 50 years old.  My dentist told me last December I might need to get a crown on one of my back molars, as the filling had deteriorated and caused some cracking in the tooth.  We scheduled it for July, after the next routine cleaning.

Like many survivors, I have quite a history in the dental chair.  I’m okay with routine maintenance and fillings.  I have struggled with X-rays, because they trigger my very strong gag reflex, and if the tech isn’t very good and quick I get angry.  I had to explain to my then-dentist, during an incident that took place probably thirty years ago, why I’d been so angry when a tech went running to him to complain about me.  I told him briefly about my history with childhood sexual abuse, and explained that while I worked very hard to stay calm during dental appointments, sometimes people sticking too many things in my mouth at once could be a problem.  He was very sympathetic, and over the years thanked me several times for being so open with him.

I think back to the day, sometime in the early 80’s, when a group of survivors I was working with shared our thoughts and experiences around dental appointments.  We all had problems, and most of them were very similar.  But it’s hard to know what to say and not to say to medical professionals about our experiences.  Some are compassionate, but others don’t want to hear it.  I used to dream about someday being involved with a program that would educate doctors and dentists about working with abuse survivors.  Maybe those programs exist now.  If so, I’m not aware of them.

So here I am, after a cleaning and some X-rays, having lots of digital images taken to create a new crown for my tooth.  What followed was two or more hours of some of the most intense dental work I’d ever experienced.  Grinding, poking, tone depressors…and the insertion of some very unfamiliar stuff in my mouth to keep the area clean and hydrated.  I was told I had a “curious tongue” which made it challenging for the dentist.  I’d received plenty of numbing, so I wasn’t in pain…not exactly.  But I was being triggered right and left, and I had to work very hard to stay calm, and to keep my arms and legs from spasming.

(I’ve learned over the years that when I’m triggered, my arms and legs spasm intensely.  I think it’s because my body is angry and wants to hit someone!)

During brief breaks when I could speak, I tried to explain to the dentist what I was going through.  Not a lot—just a brief mention of childhood sexual abuse, and how many survivors struggle with dental work.  Many don’t make appointments at all!  I told him if I was the first patient to talk to him about this, then I was sorry for that, because I sure I was not the first survivor he’d had in his chair.  I told him the problem was not in my mouth, but in my head.

(I should mention at this point that I really, REALLY like my dentist.  Just not THAT day.)

He decided to break the work into two appointments.  He assured me I was being an awesome patient, but he’d forgotten to ask me to bring my nighttime apnea appliance to ensure we had a perfect fit.  Oh goodie.  I was going to get to go through this all again!

Fast forward two weeks later.  Same procedures.  A little shorter appointment this time because the cleaning and the measurements were all done.   Knowing what to expect made me tolerate the mouth work a little better, but my legs and arms were even more painful.  I’d brought my own little toy to squeeze this time, and I think that helped.  I brought a little stuffed dragon named “Cinders,” who usually sits by my laptop and watches me work.  I chose him to remind myself that I was now an adult, and not an 8-year-old child that people could use as they pleased.

I’ve frequently thought that there are things I don’t completely remember about the episodes when my cousin abused me.  I know he asked me to put his penis in my mouth, which I didn’t do, but he did.  I don’t remember how many times this happened.  All I know is most abusers don’t do ANYTHING once.

I also think back to all the times I’ve tried to explain to people that sexual abuse doesn’t always involve intercourse.  Many times, the abuser seems to draw a line if the child is very young.  Oral abuse, however, is very common.  Which, of course, is why we don’t like the dental chair.

Lots to think about after I got home – and then something very strange happened.  Two days after the second appointment, the front desk called me to tell me I had a floral delivery they were bringing up.  I looked at my husband, who shook his head.  Not his!  Birthday, anniversary, Christmas…all months away.  Colleagues?  Had I made any large grants recently?  No, not really.  

The lovely autumnal bouquet that arrived minutes later had been sent by my dentist.

I sent him a thank-you note, of course, and included my card.  Had he heard me?  Or was this something he always did after a patient had had a rough procedure?  As I mentioned earlier, he is a very nice dentist.

I choose to think that I made HIM think.  And as a friend reminded me, it could have happened to him as well.  

As I said, I never know where to draw the line when it comes to conversations about sexual abuse.  But this time, apparently, I’d put it in the right place.