Let’s Call Her “The Dentist.”

There are certain regular exams we undergo: teeth cleanings, physicals, eye checks. There are some appointments that we girls have to make, some things that need to be investigated to make sure that all things feminine are in order, on a routine cycle, and free of lumps and bumps.

In the nature of keeping this blog post rated for general audiences, we’ll say I went to ‘the dentist.’

My ‘Dentist’ and her nurse go way, way back with me. Back to the days of my skeletal self sitting on the table, begging for anything that would just get me to sleep at night. We’ve been down a long road together.  They’ve been taking excellent care of me for years, and I adore them.

And those sweet girls read everything I write. Everything. I think they would tell you more about me than I could, really.

So we go through the list of standard questions:

“Are you sleeping well? Because I see you posting on Facebook in the middle of the night… how is the insomnia?”

“Of course I know you don’t smoke. Do you drink alcohol? No? Because you mention wine fairly frequently on the blog!” (Insert laughter since we all know I’m a lightweight.)

“How is your diet? From reading the blog, I’m not sure it’s so good…”

“Do pets sleep in your room? Where does Murphy sleep?”

The thing is, yes, I write all these things, I post them for the world to read, and then I forget them. I toss my meanderings into the great void, forgetting that someone else is holding the other end of this tin can on a string. You’re reading what I say.
You are hardly a faceless community, and sometimes I bump into you and find myself. You tell me what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve said, what it has meant to you, who it has impacted who’s talking about it… and suddenly, I think, wait. It’s like we’ve had this conversation, and yet I’m pretty sure I was alone in my jammies when I processed those things.

Oh, right. Bloggety blog. The pages of my soul.

And so, then, it was time for the internal part of the ‘dental exam.’ Checking the gums and tonsils for an abnormalities, if you will. And while I lay there indisposed, really kind of unable to complete sentences, and definitely just wanting to pretend this part is over, the dialogue continued.

Not the impersonal, “Say, how ’bout them Broncos at the SuperBowl. Real heartbreaker, ‘eh?”

No. It was, “How are Tucker’s stitches? That sweet boy, if anyone anywhere ever is stingy with the lidocaine, they’ll have to deal with me. I love the pictures you posted of your summer vacation when Robb was alive – the Alpine Slide! Oh, how fun!”

And then, “Oh, wait. You know what? I don’t think we need to do that test where I reach into the back of your throat and take some cells for further testing… because we did that test two years ago, and nobody has been inside your mouth in the last two years, right?”

(clearing throat.) “Right.”

And that’s when I realized that all of this has gone into a realm. When we’re discussing book signings and appearances while I’m getting a pelvic – I mean dental! – exam.

From this day foreward, these conversations can happen anywhere, any time.

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2 thoughts on “Let’s Call Her “The Dentist.”

  1. LOL – reminds me of the Doc, as he removed 3 – 5 lumps about 12 years ago… (I lost count of the number of lumps) He said, “You know, we really should just get rid of all that girly stuff… You’re not going to have any more kids are you?” Yes. This was DURING surgery. I was awake and talking to him through the whole thing. He showed me EACH pink (or green) blob as they appeared. (Not that I wanted to see them.)

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