Post by Jesse - Dentist Thoughts

Warning - this is one of those deep Jesse thoughts posts ---- Melissa doesn't even know I am posting. But she loves me so I hope it is okay......

On Tuesday I took Addison to the dentist. We have a wonderful dentist for our younger children. Very different from the dentist I had as a child. Our dentist is quiet, kind, and soft spoken. He really works at putting children at ease. Addison has had a cavity in his front teeth for months. Addison hates going to the dentist. He hates the gel that deadens the pain. He hates the shot that numbs the tooth. He hates the "big lip" feeling. He hates not being in control. He doesn't like being scared. And honestly who does. Melissa tried to take him to the dentist to get his tooth fixed, but he panicked and wouldn't do it. She tried again. No dice. So then I went. For two weeks Addison hasn't eaten sugar. He has always been a good brusher and flosser, but he has very porous teeth.

On Tuesday, I left work in the middle of a very busy quarter close and Addison and I went to the dentist. We had talked for days about how he was brave and he would do this. Really he had no choice. The tooth had to get fixed. As a parent I can be stern and loving almost in the same moment. I can lecture and then in almost the same breath kneel with the children to pray so that we feel the spirit. I will call loudly or sing a primary song quietly. Essentially I parent by the seat of my pants hoping that inspiration and revelation will carry me along and make up for my many deficiencies.

So there is your set up.

Addison and I go into the dentist office, sign in, and wait to be called back. Now Addison is a very small, a very little 3 year old. He is in the lower 25th percentile for height and weight. They call Addison's name and it is time for us to go back. Addison stops and says he can't go. Without even looking down, I said, "we are going." My tone is the one that tells my children - this thing isn't up for discussion or negotiation. I am dictating and now we are going. I hold out my hand - he takes it and I tell him, "I will be with you the whole time." I look down. He looks up. I squeeze his hand. He squeezes mine...and we go back together.

(Addison trying to be brave)

Addison with blonde hair and bright blue eyes climbs up into the adult size dentist chair. He looks so small and vulnerable. He tells me he doesn't want the numbing gel that makes his lip feel funny. I know it will make everything that will happen after it hurt a lot less. It will be uncomfortable, but it is better than going through this procedure with nothing. We talk about that it will help him. I explain that it will make his lip feel funny, but that it will be better if he does it. He trusts me. They put the gel on his gum. He starts to get scared. Sitting there watching I know he will hate this, but the cavity has to be fixed. The bad out and the tooth healed or it will be worse. Addison at 3 - small sweet little Addison - doesn't know what I know...doesn't understand what I understand. But he trusts me and is trying to be brave - I tell him, "you must be brave.” “You must do this.” I kiss him. I whisper in his ear, "I love you 'big guy'." (Addison doesn't like being called “little” - he is a "big boy"; he goes potty on the potty.).

Now it is time for the shot. The shot that even when I have to get it now, even with the numbing gel, can still bring unwanted tears to my eyes.

I can see the needle coming. I know what will happen. I know that it will make Addison feel almost nothing when they drill and get rid of the cavity. I know how it will hurt him and that he will cry. Because I know, I hug his hands with my hands. I tell him I love him. He must be brave now. I don't tell him why. Too much information can be paralyzing even when we think we should know it.

In goes the shot.

Addison can feel the pinch and his little body tenses. (I am grateful for the numbing gel.) He begins to cry. There is bright light in his eyes, he can't see me. The dental assistants are talking to him trying to calm him; he can't hear me. I hold his hands, but he hurts; he can't feel me. But I am there. The shot is over. The assistants move away and I get right down by his little head and hold him and whisper in his small ear, “You’re okay.” “I am here.” “You were so brave.” He thinks it might be over, but I know it has just begun. It will be harder.

They put a rubber dam on his mouth. He cries. The bright light is in his eyes again; he can't see. They put small sunglasses on him. It doesn’t help. I talk to him. He must leave the rubber dam on. He must get his teeth fixed. I talk to him more. Sometimes gently and sometimes sternly I tell him, “You can do this.” "You will do this." Sometimes I am comforting, “You are so brave." For one moment he is aware of me…he calms...he trusts me.




The dentist comes and now it is time to drill.

I hold Addison's hands. He begins to cry, "I don't want this." "I want to go." "Please, let's just go." His very little body is all tense. The tears stream down his face and into his ears. They use nice terms like the "buzzing bee" drill or the "motorcycle drill" - but it is a drill and it scares and he cries. I hold his hands. I rub his legs. And in my mind I think - I have been there. I am with you Addison. I know just how you feel, but this has to happen.

Like a lightening bolt a voice came into my mind and said to me as a message from Heavenly Father, "That is how I feel about you…right now." I felt a jolt. Heavenly Father does that a lot with me. As I am working with my children he points out to me - almost verbally that he is doing the same thing, feeling the same way, seeing the same thing about me. He feels joy in my righteousness. He feels sorrow when I sin. He suffers when I suffer. He knows that the gel will be hard, that the shot will be worse, and that there will still be drilling, but in the end. The disease...the weakness…the cavity will be gone and I will be healed.

The drilling is over and Addison can't take it. He says he needs to go to the bathroom. The hole must still be filled and sealed. The dentist is worried he won't get back in the chair and finish what needs to be done. The dentist doesn't know me. I look at the dentist and I say we'll be back, but we are going to the bathroom. I'm not cleaning up the mess if we don't.

Addison climbs into my arms and I carry him. He is shaking like a leaf. We go into the bathroom and while he sits on the toilet and cries with me kneeling by him and his arms around my neck. He whispers, "Please, please, just take me home." "I can't do this." "I just want to go." He cries softly into my neck. I say, "Let’s pray together." He says, "You say it."

I pray, "Heavenly Father help Addison to be calm and to make it." "Help him to be brave and do what must be done." We end and he holds me tighter - in the smallest voice yet, he says, "I'm scared." Another flash of parental insight. I ask, "Do you want a blessing?" There is a mirror. I can his reflection and my reflection is holding his. His little body engulfed by mine. I see his head nod almost imperceptibly. I with hardly any movement move my hands to his head. They are on his head while I am still kneeling. (I have been here before - kneeling by someone I love blessing them.) It is short. I carry him back to the chair, back to his fears, and back to what he must go through to be better and stronger and healed.

The dentist is amazed. Addison gets into the chair. He is crying. He is scared. He is brave. The bright light, the sounds, and I am there holding his hands. I am there while he cries softly and is scared, but bravely finishes the process.

Later that night Addison is eating a Popsicle he looks at me, smiles, and says, "I'm glad I got my tooth fixed." I hug him and say, “me too.” He is better, stronger, and healed.

Today, when I want to say – “I want to get out of this chair.” “I just want to go home.” “Please, can I just go now.” I can feel Heavenly Father saying to me, “It will be okay - you have to go on now.” “You have to be brave.”

And somewhere inside I know I will be glad that I went through it, but never wanting to go through it again.