I’m sitting in a waiting room. Or fighting with a dental hygienist.
My son is having dental surgery. Twice this month.
We went to the dentist because you are supposed to bring your kids to the dentist. I was just checking the we-are-doctors-who-follow-reasonable-recommendations box with my oldest.
Our dentist saw spots, took x-rays and found EIGHT CAVITIES.
They also handed me a scarlet letter.
I swear he brushed his teeth. At least once a week. Probably twice. Look, I had my first cavity at THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD, and I consider candy part of the food pyramid. Why would I think he’d have squishy teeth?
When we brought him to the pediatric dentist, we were told that my son could brush his teeth five times a day and this cavity fiasco would’ve happened anyway. And I’m pretty sure the guy wasn’t just saying that because my husband refers a lot of patients to him. E’s teeth are so close together that he looks like he already HAD braces.
And then the dentist drops the bomb. The only way to prevent more cavities is to FLOSS!
WHO THE HECK FLOSSES? And now even my twenty-month-old knows how.
Finally, we were told that they’d like to do one side at a time. With sedation. And they didn’t mean me.
I keep thinking of the horrible youtube video of the kid post-sedation that I can’t even watch all the way through because I’m embarrassed. I picture kids seizing. Not breathing. I think of my own difficulties with tolerance and medication and wonder if E inherited my body’s ability to absorb more drug than my weight should allow. Than a sumo wrestlers should allow.
I rue the day I went to medical school.
And then I consider my options:
- Pull all the offending teeth and have eight giant gaps and a son who remains deathly afraid of pliers well into his forties.
- Do nothing and let his teeth rot away.
- Insist they do every tooth at once.
- Trust them and breathe.
I am doing the latter. Mostly because my husband hid the pliers.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of the procedure or of keeping my son from eating or drinking between midnight and 7:45 a.m.. Twice.
Maybe if E completely loses it in the waiting room and starts screaming, I’M STARVIN’ MARVIN, MAMA! I’M DRINKY! AHHHHHH!, they’ll do all eight to keep us from ever coming back.
One can always hope.