That Location

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.