“Got any plans for the weekend?” my dentist asked. I was in the chair a few weeks ago for my first crown procedure, and only slightly nervous.
“I’m actually getting a tattoo tomorrow,” I said. Jake, his friend Noelle and I had booked these matching pedestrian peacocks weeks ago.
“You’re just getting all kinds of needles,” he remarked.
I smiled to myself, thinking of my latest new ear piercing. Yes, I am hardcore. I am the Cool Girl; unbothered. I like tattoos, I like piercings, I can handle this.
But then the first syringe of local anesthesia came looming into my field of vision. A flicker of nervousness. A few minutes later, after I was properly numbed, the assistant leaned me back. The light was uncomfortably bright. I screwed my eyes shut, crossed my arms protectively, and the dentist started drilling.
Trauma and [re]birth
I’ve never had a problem with dental work before. But I’m still finding ways in which trauma from my first birth almost three years ago affects me now. I had an upsetting experience giving birth, with an emergent c-section due to fetal heart rate irregularities.
It took about a year for me to unpack what happened and why I felt betrayed. It was a monumentally tough day for me, yet the doctors seemed surprised that I was unhappy. They thought everything was fine, because to them it was not an unusual experience: 1 out of every 3 births in the United States is a c-section, and the second-most common reason for them is the fetal heart rate. That knowledge (acquired later) was salt in the wound; I should have known this could happen and worked to avoid it.
But the truth is that I also counted myself out from being an active participant in my labor. I vowed not to let any of that—not being informed, not speaking up or advocating for my needs, working with providers I didn’t explicitly trust—happen again.
And for a while, it didn’t. I advocated for myself in a minor dermatology procedure the next year. Good practice.
And then I had my second baby in a radically different way—home birth. I spent months preparing, surrounding myself with positive, capable professionals who supported me wholly. I pushed myself to find new narratives about fear and pain, new sides of myself, and it worked. I delivered a healthy 9 pound girl in a vaginal birth after cesarean. At home, in my bedroom. Zero interventions, zero pain meds.
Taking that power back for birth was transformative. But it was also a lot of work. I don’t think I expected to need to advocate for myself so heavily in every medical procedure for the rest of my life.
I used to just sit there and let the professionals do their thing, but apparently that doesn’t work for me anymore. I didn’t do any research on the crown prep for my teeth, and I certainly didn’t consult anyone about their experiences. I didn’t ask the dentist any questions on the day of the procedure, and didn’t communicate any nerves. I’d had fillings before. They were unpleasant, but manageable. But that was before the birth trauma.
The Tooth-Decay to We’re-All-Going-to-Die-One-Day pipeline
The crown procedure was unexpectedly challenging: no one explaining what was going on, a burning smell as teeth were ground away, uncomfortable pressure, loud equipment, water pooling in the back of my throat making it hard to breathe, and me with no idea how long this would go on. I felt trapped, uncertain if moving or speaking would somehow jeopardize things—and besides, what would I say? “This sucks” or “Are we there yet?”
After the procedure, I just wanted to forget about it and move on. But my temporary crown kept falling off.
I had to wait a few weeks to get the permanent one (still waiting). For a week, my mouth was sore and my jaw ached. Eating was uncomfortable. Each time when I went to get the crown re-cemented, the staff assured me it would be stronger adhesive. I found myself laying up in bed at night anxious about the pain. I wondered why I didn’t say more at the appointment. I spiraled about the inevitable progressive decay of each of my teeth, and later, my whole body. I felt sorry for myself. I was Fontine from Les Mis; I was James Frey in A Million Little Pieces. It sounds so dramatic to literally lose sleep over this. But my anxiety likes to root out anything bad and ruminate over it, as if to confirm my generalized fears are founded.
Before birth trauma, I think I’d have been annoyed about my crown falling out. But now I had extra suspicion—did the dentist do something wrong? There were so many things about my first birth that I learned later, through requesting my medical records and getting more educated around birth statistics. It’s not that the doctors ever lied to me exactly, but they didn’t ask a lot of questions or provide alternatives. What happened makes perfect sense now: a little bad luck and an ill-informed first time mom. Like I said, I course-correct the second time.
But do I really need to get that invested in dental care? Birth is so multi-faceted. There are so many ways to have a baby, but are there really that many ways to do a dental crown? After the procedure, properly shaken, I did get more informed. I watched YouTube videos from dentists and read blog posts about crown procedures on dental websites (they definitely had the air of SEO copy, but better than nothing I guess). And finally I was emboldened and got my dentist on the phone—he said we were just unlucky with the crown. It hasn’t fallen off again.
Healing on a tattoo table
The day after the dentist was my tattoo appointment. I was almost giddy to see the artist, Kelly, and to feel properly cared for. She’d done my first bigger tattoo earlier this year (two birds on my upper arm for each of my daughters). This time, I got the peacock on the back of my arm and it barely hurt at all. We laughed, I rested, we reflected on the drama of medical care and how hard it is to just feel seen by providers sometimes, and how getting a tattoo hurts too, but is 10 times more fun and chill than other procedures. It’s nice that it’s elective, sure, but I think good tattoo artists want to make you feel comfortable. It was something that became evident to me was missing after my crown procedure.
This is not an attack on doctors, dentists or other healthcare providers. It’s bigger than that. I think most of them really do care about patients and even about helping patients feel comfortable. They are also stressed, in high-stakes situations, and they can’t read people’s minds. I just don’t think they get it, how patients really feel, and people like me are too scared or too ill-informed to speak up. That said, I hate how the onus for bridging that gap between doctors and patients seems to be all on the patient—when the providers are the ones with so much more obvious power and knowledge.
Fragile
Through the fog of my newfound dental anxiety, a new realization emerged: maybe this is bigger than dental work. I’d been feeling depleted in a few ways, and this took me over the edge.
I sought out relief from acupuncture, particularly for the jaw pain and trouble sleeping. The acupuncturist was sympathetic, nodding sagely as I described my symptoms and what I hoped to achieve. She placed the tiny needles in my feet, my scalp, my stomach, my jaw. My body was practically quivering, I felt so activated, desperate for some help. Finally I calmed down. When we finished, she asked me how I felt.
“Fragile,” I said.
I felt restored, but I was concerned too. I’m not sure how sustainable this all is—if a routine dental procedure throws me off for two weeks, what am I going to do if something actually goes wrong? I feel like I’m in overdrive, with that feeling of anxiety but not sleeping but also my superpower of not being that tired.
I know I’m not the only mom who feels overwhelmed. I do what they’re supposed to do: I go to therapy. I don’t work overtime. We have a monthly cleaning service. Jake and I have date nights. My kids sleep through the night. I exercise. I see friends. I have so much support.
But I need more. The gaping maw of my needs feels shameful, indulgent, extra. What else can I ask for? What else do I deserve? I don’t know. Everything feels too high stakes.
I don’t know how to stop it.
More needles
What I do know is that I will be going back to acupuncture next week.
I guess my dentist was right about all the needles.
I got a COVID shot and a flu shot yesterday too (at Target! A mini mom-cation).
And then later I’ll be back in the dentist’s chair for my permanent crown, with more anesthesia.
I might as well plan another tattoo… after all, I am hardcore. I am the Cool Girl.
I don’t know what else to tell myself.
“But I need more. The gaping maw of my needs feels shameful, indulgent, extra. What else can I ask for? What else do I deserve? I don’t know. Everything feels too high stakes.”
This hits home. I, too, have so much support, have time to work out and see friends (sometimes), have great sleepers, excellent health care, etc. But sometimes even the thought of asking for something else (What? I’m totally sure…) seems entitled. Like, “You have ALL of this and you’re still feeling like something is missing, or you deserve more?”
I know that’s not true, but it’s how I feel. What is it about our culture that makes us feel this way?
(Also, very sorry about your crown experience. That sounds very stressful. We’re very lucky that our dentist does the whole thing in a single visit, about 2 hours, and you get a permanent crown right then. All dentists need to have that option! Hopefully it all goes smoothly from here on out.)