Oh, What a week. Wondering what I've been doing? Working. WORKING. And of course, working. No time for silly blog management, must work more. Feh.
So, lets see, what stands out about my week. Hmmm.
1. Drew hates his dentist. And told him so.
Last week we had a regularly schedule visit to the pediatric dentist. Will did fine, Drew did fine, until it was discovered that he has five cavities. Did you catch that? FIVE. One of which is so bad it has nerve damage, and needs a mini-root canal. My inner supermommy continues to fade into oblivion, because, what kind of mom lets a kid get five cavities? Sigh. But, she takes another Percoset and moves on.
Anyway, Trip and I have been round and round on this topic, because the dentist wants to take care of all of these things while Drew is under a general anesthesia. If there are any two words to really freak people out, general and anesthesia are probably at the top of most parent's list. I was mostly okay with it, after doing a little research, because I myself have clear, yet horrible memories of having cavities filled when I was young, and these experiences are largely responsible for my issues with people being near my face. I really hate going to the dentist, and didn't go, for years and years. I would much rather go to the gynecologist than the dentist. But at some point along way I grew up a little. So the last few years I've made an effort to go see the one guy whom I actually trust, regardless of where I live in this country. If he ever retires I am maybe just having all my teeth pulled and getting falsies, because I don't think I can face going to someone else. That should work out well for my husband, anyway. Oh, wait, did I just say I grew up?
AHEM. Anyway. This is about Drew, but in some ways its about me because Oh My God, I hate dental work and the thought of my boy having to go this experience makes me shake. So, I am kind of all for the general anesthesia, where he gets a tiny little IV, counts backwards from ten, and wakes up a few hours later with no memory of even seeing the Dentist, much less holding his mouth open while the maniac laughs his evil laugh and drills and saws out his teeth and cuts out his tongue.
Trip on the other hand, stuck out his jaw until his temple throbbed and said NO CHILD OF MINE WILL ENTER UNDER GENERAL ANESTHESIA, NO WAY NO HOW. This from the man who doesn't do well with hospitals, blood, or children screaming agony (pretend or real), would rather the child go through this awake, rather than the small risk associated with general anesthesia. Why? Because he doesn't do well with anesthesia himself, and these things are genetic. My husband, the scientist. A scientist with a degree in Advertising. Yes, Of course.
BUT. All of this became a moot point yesterday. Because Drew had been having some pain in the one tooth that had the nerve damage, so instead of waiting a few weeks to fit all this into the anesthesiologist's schedule, we decided to go ahead, do the nerve procedure in the dentists office with a little laughing gas as a relaxer and shoot Novocaine into his gum line and just go for it. It was to get him out of pain, they said. Yesterday I took him out of school a half an hour early, and we went for it, with the idea that we would still do the general anesthesia part in a few weeks to take care of the other cavities and putting a crown on this one. Or, possibly, if it went well with this one and he did okay with all the drilling and such (trying to be optimistic) then we could maybe take care of the other teeth in similar, subsequent office visits.
Poor kid, never knew what hit him. Look at this cool mask, the nurse said. Its like a fighter pilot mask! Like pilots wear! Do you want to be a pilot? Look, you can lay right here on this table, and I will wrap this Velcro covered straight jacket around you, (its called a papoose, figure it out) its like the special seat belt that pilots wear, isn't that cool? Look I will put sunglasses on you, just a like a fighter pilot! You are so cool! Do your hands feel tingly? Isn't that funny? Ok, here's the doctor.
This is about where Drew's little fighter pilot brain started sending ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! ABORT MISSION - RETURN TO BASE! signals, but it was too late. I will save you the gory details, mostly because I am shaking so bad from the memory of him screaming and trying to buck his way out of the papoose that I can barely type. It was that bad. His fight or flight response, to say the least, is strong. And at this moment it wanted to both fight and then flight. They told me I could go sit out front, but I chose to sit there with him and hold his foot to try and help calm him down, as if I would have been able to stand the screaming listening to it from the lobby (which had no door, by the way, it wouldn't have even muffled the noise). Suffice to say the nitrous oxide did nothing but make his hands tingle, it did not help relax him.
And about halfway through the procedure, after all the drilling was over and they were putting in the temporary filling, is when Drew told the dentist, very clearly, despite all the paraphernalia in his cranked open mouth, "I DON'T LIKE YOU. I HATE YOU." And the dentist calmly said, "Yes, I can understand that."
When it was all said and done, and they let him out of the papoose, he scampered off the side of the table like a branded calf, and then glared, hard, individually at each adult in the room, sending red hot hate through hot tears and a very red face. And then he folded his arms over his chest and said, "I want my t-shirt." (He didn't get a special t-shirt on the day of his regular check-up, like his brother did, because he'd had cavities, and the nurse told him he would get a t-shirt after he got his cavities fixed. Its like this special reinforcement thing they think is a good idea to make kids want to make sure they don't have any cavities.) The nurse hesitated for just a moment, because I know she was thinking he still wasn't supposed to get a t-shirt until his other cavities were fixed as well, but she caught my eye and I gave her a look that said you give him a fucking t-shirt right fucking now, Nurse Ratched, or I will rip those braces right off your face, and I think she believed my telepathic message of hate because she went and got him one.
Drew cried all the way home. I laid him on the couch, gave him a big dose of Tylenol, and let him watch Spongebob for the rest of the afternoon. By about 4 o'clock he was feeling a lot better. And when Trip got home, I very calmly, but very clearly stated what to me, had become the obvious:
"We will do the rest of this while he is under general fucking anesthesia, and this conversation is over." And he agreed.