I had a dentist appointment today. A seemingly innocuous visit that ended up being a trigger for me.
My last visit, six months ago, was right after I lost Nelle. The hygienist asked me the painful question “How many children do you have?” Then proceeded to tell me about how her sister was due to have a baby in January. I was supposed to be due in January. In my head, I was thinking “stoptalkingstoptalkingstoptalking.” Already on the brink of tears, it was noted that I had some early-stage gingivitis. I choked on the words “Could that be pregnancy gingivitis? I was recently pregnant.” Then I cried.
Now, six months later, deja vu. Like so many other experiences, I have to endure the dentist as a reminder. I was tempted to go into the appointment saying “If you notice I haven’t been taking care of my teeth, spare me the lecture. I have had two pregnancy losses in seven months and I don’t give a shit right now.” Instead I said, “You know what, I’m really not feeling well – any way we could hurry up the cleaning and the exam.” That worked. I was asked if there were any changes in my medical history since six months ago and I hesitated, asking “What kind of changes?” Meaning “Do I have to tell you that in the past six months I got pregnant again, and now I’m not anymore?” Instead, I only answered that I’m now on anti-depressants. Path of least resistance.
The day is dreary. The bottoms of my sweatpants are wet against my ankles from the rain.