Grief and the Dentist
January 19, 2021
“Hello,” I said holding the phone to my ear as I walked into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind me to drown out the sounds of the boys wrestling in the living room. I answered even though I didn’t recognize the number. I had assumed it was either the NICU or the funeral home and as much as I was dreading those calls, I wanted to get them over with.
“Hi there! Is this D?” asked a much too chipper voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, it is,” I responded without emotion.
“This is Dr. Lowell’s office. I’m calling to remind you of your dentist appointment tomorrow at nine a.m. Are you going to make it?” she asked.
Standing just inside the bedroom door, my right hand dropped to my side but gripped the phone tightly. Tears burned at the backs of my eyes, came to the surface, spilled over. A sense of panic overtook my body. My breath was knocked out of me as though I had fallen from a tree and landed square on my back. How was I going to say the words, words that I hadn’t yet said to a stranger, words that if spoken aloud would make them undeniably real?
I tried to calm myself, closed my eyes, and drew in a deep breath. I returned the phone to my ear.
“Hello? D? Are you still there?” I heard
“Yes, but I won’t make it.” I paused, then choked out, “My baby died. His funeral is tomorrow.”
“Oh no,” she gasped. “Oh my God. I am so, so sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known. I’m sorry. I have to go,” I whimpered, then pressed “End.”
My legs gave out. I collapsed to the carpeted floor. On my hands and knees, a guttural cry escaped me, filling the room. I sounded more wounded animal than human. R is dead. My baby is dead. My sweet boy is gone. He’s really gone. This nightmare is real.
*
June 16, 2022
The dental chair was reclined, the bright light glowed into my open mouth, and the hygienist was working away at my bottom teeth when she asked the inevitable question, “I saw you declined x-rays because you’re pregnant. Is this your first?”
I rolled my eyes back and looked at the ceiling. When she pulled the metal scraper out of my mouth to wipe the plaque on the napkin bib hanging around my neck, I answered, “No, this will be my fifth.”
“Wow. You certainly have your hands full,” she started as she went back to work on my teeth. “How old are your others?”
I waited until she had pulled the scraper from my mouth before attempting to answer. Thankfully, this gave me a few seconds to consider how best to respond. “Z is eight, J is seven, and L is four. R would be one, but he died when he was a month old.”
She had been going back in for more tartar, but pulled her hand away and straightened her posture. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
I’ve always felt vulnerable in the dentist chair, maybe even more so than I’ve felt on the exam table in the fertility specialist’s office. At least there, with the doctor on a low stool between my legs, I am on higher ground. Laying back in the dentist chair with another’s body leaning over mine and sharp, metal instruments jutting in and out of my mouth brings on a feeling of panic that I have never felt with my legs in stirrups. Not to mention, it is uncomfortable even on the best day to engage in small talk during a teeth cleaning. But now, it was even worse – the talk had moved from small to significant.
I looked up at the ceiling and thought about how I could possibly summarize Reed’s life and his death, knowing nothing I would say could ever do him justice, could ever capture his beautiful, fighting spirit or my fierce and endless love for him.
“R was born more than three months early,” I said. “He was doing really well in the NICU, and I had every reason to believe he was going to be okay.” I paused briefly, thinking about the ninety-six percent long-term survival rate he had been given. “But when he was a month old, he got an infection called necrotizing enterocolitis and died the same day.”
“That’s too bad,” she said and then we sat in awkward silence for a moment. When I didn’t fill the void with my voice, she said, “Well, I guess I should get back to your cleaning.” She shifted uncomfortably and picked up her tool.
She forged ahead with scraping and picking. She made comments here and there about the significance of flossing, areas of tartar buildup, and the importance of not missing appointments. I flashed to the cleaning I would have attended but for R’s funeral. I thought about the year of nearly debilitating grief when even the thought of calling the office to reschedule that appointment had me reeling. I thought about the fact that when I finally got the courage to call, I was told I would have to wait another six months before I could get in. I bit back the desire to tell her that sometimes there are more important things, such as simply trying to survive, than getting one’s teeth cleaned. She finished up and said the dentist would be in shortly.
“Hello, D,” Dr. Lowell said as he walked into the office. “How are you doing today?” Another innocuous question, I thought, that if answered honestly in the midst of grief would only lead to discomfort in the asker.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
“I see you’re pregnant. Congratulations! I also just saw your sons last week, didn’t I? Your husband brought them?” he asked.
“Yes. I hope they weren’t too much trouble,” I responded.
“No trouble at all. They seem to be good boys. Maybe you’ll get a girl this time! It looks like you’re missing one though. You were having babies every two years and now there’s a bigger gap. You must have needed a break,” he joked.
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “There is another one,” I said. I couldn’t stop the tears from pooling in my eyes, “My fourth son, R, was born prematurely in December 2020 and died in January 2021 after a month in the NICU.”
He looked as shocked by my response as I was by his seemingly innocent comment. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.
“It’s okay,” I replied even though it was not okay. I was not okay. I had the sudden urge to leap from the chair and run out the door without even bothering to take off the soiled bib, but I somehow regained my composure.
The dentist didn’t ask anymore questions and went straight to work. After checking my teeth, he said, “Everything looks great. We’ll see you back in six months.”
On the way out, I realized that six months from then would be January 2023, and that the baby was due in January. My next appointment was scheduled for March 16, 2023. Once that was done, I hurried out, saving my tears for the relative privacy of my car.
*
March 13, 2023
“Did you ever call and cancel your appointment for the sixteenth?” my husband J asked with a touch of irritation in his voice, as he stood in the kitchen of the condo my parents had been renting in Florida. The boys and my mom and dad were all in the open living space of the condo and were within earshot of this conversation, so I was instantly annoyed. Why was he bringing this up now? Was he trying to start a fight?
“No, I didn’t,” I responded.
“Well, are you going to?” he asked accusatorily.
“No, I’m not going to call. I don’t think I’m going to go back there,” I stated, feeling a lump form in my throat.
“You need to, D. I have to go back there. The boys have to go back there. You can’t just not cancel,” he responded.
“You call then. You know how it has been for me with the dentist. You know it’s a whole thing. I’m not sure why you’re being like this,” I said as the tears welled in my eyes.
“What’s the name of the dentist you go to? It’s Dr. Lowell, right? I’ll call and cancel for you,” Mom chimed in. “I don’t mind.”
“No, I’ll do it,” J said with authority, putting an end to any discussion, “I’ll do it.”
“Mommy, are you okay?” asked L. He ran to me and placed his arms around my waist. “Are you crying?”
I shook my head, “It’s nothing, honey. Go ahead and put your bathing suit on. I’ll be ready to go down to the pool with you guys in a minute.”
He scurried off and I retreated to the bedroom for a moment alone. There was no way that I could bring myself to go, but as the appointment grew nearer, I also found it impossible to call the office to cancel. Everyone there knew that I had been pregnant during my last appointment. What they didn’t know was that nearly halfway through my pregnancy, I was told in a cold, dark ultrasound room, that A, my sweet baby girl, no longer had a heartbeat. What they didn’t know was that I had to bury yet another baby. What they didn’t know was that my hopes and dreams for the future had been dashed once again. But I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t have another call like the one I’d had two years before. I couldn’t have another visit like the one I’d had eight months before.
Grief is tricky that way. I had done countless impossible things since A’s heart had stopped beating. I told the boys, answered their questions, and held them while they cried and screamed out in anger. I planned her funeral and decorated her grave. I went to the obstetrician’s office for my follow-up appointments, despite being surrounded by swollen bellies and the memory of the words spoken there that had shattered my world. I had returned to work only a week after she died. But I could not face the dentist. I could not go back to that office. I couldn’t even bear the thought of calling.
I heard a knock at the door. Thinking it was J, I yelled, “I’ll be out in a minute buddy. I’m just getting my suit on.”
“It’s me.” It was J on the other side of the door.
“Come in,” I said, still hurt by J’s callousness earlier.
“I’m sorry, D,” he said. “I’ll call and cancel when you’re down at the pool.” He took me into his arms, and I buried my head in his chest.
After a moment, I pulled away, wiped my eyes, plastered a big smile on my face, and walked into the living room, “Who’s ready to swim?”
-Diana Robinson
Diana Robinson is a labor and employment attorney based in Toledo, Ohio. She is also a wife and the the mother to five children: three she is lucky enough to parent earthside and two who will live forever in her heart. She is currently working on a memoir on infertility, baby loss, and mothering through grief.