What I Learned at the Dentist

What I Learned at The Dentist

Anne D. Basting

We get out the door, into the car, and to the dentist’s office - on time. 
A minor miracle. 

Now for the journey from the parking lot to the office. 

Nitro walker unstowed.
Mom unbuckles and
summons an ancient god-like force of will to urge those feet, which seem to belong to someone else, out of the car.

I fumble to slide her sunglasses over her ears 
In front of her ears
Over one ear
Finally over both ears
and we make our way up the bumpy ramp to the door.  

“Bump!” I warn her.  
“Oh!!” says she, surprised anyway.

Again and again.

“Bump!” 
”Oh!”

We call for the makeshift elevator which feels like a small town carnival ride run by a dental hygienist. 
In a quiet moment on the creaky machinery, Mom turns to me and says: 

“Thank you for being so nice to me.” 

I don’t know what to say.  

At first I wonder if she thinks I’m a stranger who is delivering her to her (much needed) teeth cleaning. 

“Well,” I say, “you have a 50-year head start on being nice to me... so I have to catch up.” 

She says it again. 
Her kindness is almost eerie. I burrow into it anyway.  

The receptionist welcomes us by name.
We find a seat that is high enough and has arms that she will be able to get out of. 

Funny how I have come to read chairs on a scale of quicksand. 
A bearded young man offers to move if his seat is better for us.  
His deep, low chair has no arms - a four out of five on the quicksand scale. 

It would take everyone in the lobby to get her out of that chair.

I politely decline his kindness. He’ll get it one day. 

The hygienist calls us back right away, again warmly welcoming Sally.
She pauses a second and asks “What kind of music would you like to hear?”  

Mom looks at me, unsure of what to answer. 

Executive function. Remembering. Comparing. Choosing. Not her sweet spot.  

I start to answer and stop. 
A realization. All the music I think I know that my parents like - is Dad’s music.
His 45s. His LPs. From his childhood on up. I don’t know if mom ever bought an album.
I suddenly don’t know if I ever heard her offer a favorite song.  

I flash to childhood stories of three brothers.
Of controlling parents. And hating piano lessons... I remember that story. I feel that story. 

My children will have no problem. My taste in music is clear, as are the stories of its roots - of discovering the album section in the public library in Janesville. Of playing guitar. Of seeing concerts. Both sons already know what to play when I’m stressed in the car. 

How can I fail Mom in this elemental thing? How can I not know what music will distract her from the discomfort and confusion born of gloved fingers and shiny metal being shoved in one’s mouth?  

What was the music of her teenage years when it lays a track in the brain that seems to resist all attempts at erosion? What was the music playing in the background as she fell in love?  When she formed herself in college and disobeyed her father’s order not to leave the grounds of her small campus without his permission. What was playing in the summers she spent with her mentor, teacher by school year, golf pro in Door County in the warm release of classes and studiousness. 

What is the music that will let a slow smile open even when the dental pick hits a sensitive spot? 

I offer Neil Diamond, figuring that while it might not be perfect, it won’t hurt.  
I sit in the corner and hold her shoe when she winces just in case Song Sung Blue is only soothing to me.
And I vow to ask Dad. 

“Thank you for being so nice to me,” she says, again, as she eats an M&M sugar cookie at lunch on the way back to the memory care center.  

I want to say 

Stop saying that Mom! 
I’m not being nice to you. 
I love you. 
I am learning so much about love and parenting and being a child from you.
I’m learning so much about what I don’t know. 

But instead I hear the dishes clang and chatter rise around me at the cafe. 

I hand her a napkin to motion where on her cheek she needs to wipe off the mayonnaise.
I think of stories of people whose fears or years of familial baggage lead them to refuse to accept care. 

And I say:  “Thank you for letting me. Not everyone does.”

4 out of 5 on the Quicksand scale…