I’m Beautiful Like Me.

It all began when I was 6-8 years old. I didn’t have my adult front teeth for long. I was in an accident and lost my front right tooth and root. A kindly stranger helped me, put my tooth and root on ice, called my folks and took me to meet them at the local dentist. The dentist gave me an artificial root (mine had died in the meantime) and shoved my tooth back into my face. He told my parents that I would need to grow more before real repairs could be made at around age 12 or 13.

I was devastated by my ugly smile. I stopped caring properly for my teeth. By the time I was 12, my parents divorced. My dad’s insurance would have covered the dental repairs but he was afraid of the dentist and wouldn’t take me.

At age 15, my mom took me to the University of Louisville School of Dentistry to finally get my smile fixed. She could afford it, but since it was a school and since I had neglected caring for my teeth properly for so many years, they wanted to take care of my many cavities first. Mom took me to that place once every other week or so for the next two and a half years.

My worst experience there was early. I had to have that front tooth pulled back out. Over the years, it had fused with my upper jaw bone. Under local anesthetic only, they pulled it. I truly regret that I hadn’t begged to be put out for that. It took nearly an hour to remove it entirely. I feel sick just thinking about it. The crunching noises and the different instruments they used are truly stuff of nightmares.

They fashioned me a retainer with a false tooth in it. It was the first time in more than half my life that I had a normal smile again. The dentists orders were to remove it at night, but I didn’t. It was uncomfortable to not wear it. And I still wasn’t taking care of my teeth the way I should have, so I ended up losing a second tooth - the one directly to the right of my right front tooth. They tried saving it with a root canal, but it was too late.

After those gruesome years, I finally, finally got a Marilyn bridge. I literally had a thousand dollar smile. For the first time in my life, I would smile broadly for photographs, teeth and all. It was just weeks before my 18th birthday. It’s unlikely I ever properly thanked my mom. I suppose I hoped my smile was how I thanked her.

But still, I didn’t care for my teeth the way I should have. I brushed and flossed regularly, but not like one should if they value looking normal and being able to chew their own food. In the weeks following Joy’s birth, I had my wisdom teeth removed. A few years later, I had to have two more teeth pulled because they had basically rotted away. In hindsight, I might have been able to save them with root canals, but I didn’t have insurance and certainly couldn’t afford to have paid for it out-of-pocket. Nevermind that all those years going to the School of Dentistry had infected me with the same dread of dentists that my dad suffered; I’m not certain that my mental health would have afforded me the procedures even if my pocketbook could. It was easier to get knocked out, have them pulled and be done with it than repeated trips, novacaine shots with ferocious needles, having to endure the dreadful sounds of the drill and suction tools and all the anxiety that accompanies everything dental-related.

I continued to neglect my dental health. I began to believe that many of my health problems were coming from my sick mouth, especially frequent headaches/migraines and a constantly aching jaw. But I ignored the pain, pushed through it until I could take no more.

About three months ago, I began to have a pretty bad toothache. It sucked but I had been dealing with mouth pain for so long that it wasn’t really new or preventing me from functioning. But it got worse. I finally confided in my husband about my anxieties. Heretofore, I hadn’t really shared with anyone about my fear of the dentist or - more specifically - dental work. He promised he would make some calls on my behalf and was very supportive regarding my anxieties. However, it slipped his mind and I suffered quietly because my dread was so immense, I certainly did not see fit to remind him.

Eventually, the pain became unbearable. Husband finally made the call and set me up an appointment. Lucky for me, I met with my shrink for the first time in the days just before my appointment with the dentist and he prescribed me some Xanax to help me deal with my anxieties.

When the day finally came, I took two Xanax before the appointment. I insisted on speaking with the dentist before having any work at all done. I told her all that I have said here and perhaps then some, emphasizing how my fear is punctuated by the sounds, sights and even the smells of the dental office. I informed her that I was medicated with Xanax, had brought a sleep mask and my iPod with the loudest music in my library and that I would be fine if I could use the items and try my best to pretend I was anywhere but the dentist’s office. She was patient with me, heard me out, told me what we would be doing first and that she would inform me of every procedure before continuing.

I had x-rays taken, the dentist gave a look inside at all my teeth and we discussed a plan of action. It was my intention to have the problem tooth pulled, but she told me that she believed it could be saved with a root canal. The insurance doesn’t cover those, however, and her office charges a small fortune for them. She suggested I look at the U of L School of Dentistry for just the root canals. Problem was that, not only did the prospect of going back there absolutely terrify me, it was two teeth that were causing my insane pain. I can’t afford one root canal, let alone two! I excused myself, went outside to discuss options with my waiting husband. I called my mom. I wept. Mom urged me to have the root canals and that she would pay for them. She told me I’d have to pay her back half, but she would pay for them now so I could get it done. I wept some more. I truly owe my mom the ability to genuinely smile, as well as being able to chew my food. She has - once again - saved my teeth.

I returned to the office and told the doctor that I would opt for the root canals instead of extractions. While I was outside discussing matters with mom and my husband, the receptionist had called U of L and got quotes on the root canals. The dentist then told me that she would match their price so that I wouldn’t have to wait or endure the agony of going back to U of L. I got mom on the phone from their office and she gave them credit card information while the dentist set to work and I set to make believe I was lying on a beach next to the speakers of Pantera and Slipknot and Clutch performing a concert I could only hear but not see. I still heard the drill. I pretended not to. I squeezed my eyes shut and had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of the dental chair, but I survived. I had two fillings and a root canal was started.

A few days later, I dosed myself with Xanax again and returned. I was supposed to have the root canal finished that day. I was apprehensive all over again because the dentist was different - he was the husband to the lady dentist that had worked with me at the first appointment. But he was a very friendly guy. He sat down with me and told me that his wife had explained my story and anxieties to him. Because I was still experiencing pain, he opted to do the other root canal. Both root canals are on the right side of my mouth (which is why I didn’t realize the toothache I had was two teeth and not one). The one that Mrs. Dentist started was the upper and only has two roots. The lower one the Mister did and, being a molar, has three roots. The procedure was terrible to endure, especially considering that good-natured Mr. Dentist tried to (in his words) desensitize me to dental anxiety by handing me a mirror and showing me the horror that was my near-complete root canal. When he was finished, he gave me another shot of novacaine, a prescription for antibiotics and pain meds (he was surprised that his wife hadn’t given me anything for the pain) and told me that I would be sore for several days, so not to come back for at least a week. He wasn’t kidding. My mouth hurt like hell for the next few days and I was in a constant state of loopiness due to all the meds I was taking.

I returned today to have the first (upper) root canal finished with the Missus today. Unfortunately, since all this time has passed since my last visit, I got to feeling all sick to my stomach again last night and this morning before the appointment. There wasn’t a lot of drilling, so it wasn’t too bad. The worst was sitting in that waiting room for 45 minutes with all this anticipation building up inside of me. When she was all finished, she suggested I return soon for some more fillings. My insurance only covers one visit per month, but I can have several fillings done in that one appointment and I need many more (although I will admit I honestly thought I would need more). I made appointments for the kids, too.

After the novacaine wore off today, I was in a lot of pain. I called the office and told them as much. The receptionist put me on hold for a long while and when she returned to the line, she said Mrs. Dentist said I had an infection and they’d call me in a prescription for antibiotics again. I fail to comprehend why - if I truly have an infection - this wasn’t mentioned and handled while I was in the office. I told the receptionist “Great. Now how about something for the pain?” She put me on hold again and when she got back on the line, she told me Mrs. Dentist said I would get pain relief from the antibiotics and to take ibuprofen in the meantime. By now, I’m truly thinking “What the FUCK?!” I’ll be calling them in the morning again and crying, because dammit, my face fucking hurts. Knowing my history, knowing my anxieties, knowing all the shit she knows about me, why would she want me to suffer?! With any luck, Mr. Dentist will be in tomorrow and approve me for some pain meds. Right now, I’m just grateful I had a few painkillers left from the last ’script he gave me.

I have hope that I can continue on this path of taking honest, good care of my teeth and mouth. Since my very first visit at this dentist’s office, I have brushed my teeth three times per day and flossed every single night. I have a long way to go: aside from the ten additional fillings I need, I also need a graft on my lower gums (a labret piercing ruined my lower front gums) and we have to somehow conquer some decaying that has begun to form behind my bridge. I have no idea how we will pay for it, as I assume my insurance won’t cover either of those procedures. I will also need crowns for the root canals I’ve gotten: my insurance does not cover those and they are seriously pricey.

It’s all very overwhelming. Daunting, even. But I have faith that I will find some way to overcome both the physical/mental anxieties as well as the financial strain.

I’m extremely frustrated and have been very agitated for the past week - ten days or so, so please disregard my hyperbole. I need to fucking vent.

About three weeks ago, I had a panic attack. I hated my job and completely attribute it to that fact. I would obsess over excuses to not go in and would start to feel icky when I did go in. In any case, it was a mild panic attack and I was able to mostly roll with the punches, particularly since we were slow and my boss offered to let me off early. My brother showed up and distracted me, too, so it passed quickly.

Still.

I had also started to have some shoulder pain. I’d wake up in the morning and my right shoulder would just ache. For me, that’s actually entirely normal. What isn’t normal is that the aching doesn’t wear off after some stretching and getting moving.

We had a nice little warm-up here in Louisville for a few days and I noticed that afterwards, when it cooled back down, I’d always feel extremely cold. Very unlike me. Very strange. Even stranger that I’d be cold and Husband wouldn’t be since he is the one that usually whines about the temperature.

A week prior to the panic attack, I met with my new doctor. It was the most bizarre experience I’d ever had. I needed a new ’script for Synthroid, though, and my annual blood test. I had been feeling more forgetful and losing hair again, so I wasn’t surprised when I learned (2 long weeks later) my TSH was higher than normal. The doctor increased my dose from 50 mcg to 75 mcg per day.

In any case, I wanted a follow up appointment with the doctor to go over my fasting blood panel and to talk to them about my shoulder and anxiety. Unfortunately, due to all the shit-weather we had, two appointments were canceled. In the meantime, when the doctor told me over the telephone that he was increasing my dose of Sythroid and prompted by some discussions in an online forum I visit, I decided to re-research Hashimoto’s and it’s symptoms.

So, it turns out that my anxiety and my shoulder pain might possibly be linked to Hashimoto’s. According to this link and numerous others I found by simply googling "Hashimoto’s symptoms" and "Hashimoto’s anxiety", my hypothyroidism may be the cause of these other, new and more severe symptoms.

For those of you that don’t know it, I was diagnosed with OCD when I was a teenager. Before I conceived Buddha, I was medicated for it. I had the anxiety very well controlled for the following 18 months or so. In fact, I believed my OCD only really flared back up when Joy was diagnosed herself. After reading the literature online, I’m rethinking that and wondering if it was just a symptom of Hashimoto’s, since my Hashimoto’s diagnosis was only 2-3 months after Joy’s OCD diagnosis. Seems entirely plausible.

In any case, I finally went back in to my appointment today. I wrote myself a note (so’s not to forget) about the things I wanted to discuss with the doctor. Shoulder pain, anxiety, headaches and how I wonder if they are all symptoms of Hashimoto’s. Now, I’ve suffered from migraines (most of my family members do) since I was a kid. Lately, the headaches seem to be a direct result from the anxiety which cause me to clamp my jaw together painfully, unwittingly. The meds I used to take were an enormous relief from those headaches.

I get to the doctor’s office, which is this little green house with parking in the back. I can only imagine the mess behind the closed doors and pulled curtains based on the mess I can see. The waiting area looks to have been a kitchen at one point, and while there is a frosted glass window that leads to somewhere, no one is ever behind it. Beyond the waiting area, there is a triage area where the doctor and - I presume - his wife both stay, complete with a cot that is covered entirely with medical files and other clutter. Just off of this area, there are two small rooms, which I presume to examination rooms, as they are both covered with privacy curtains (and there is no possible way that an exam can be done in the triage room with all the clutter). No doors are ever closed. When I walked in and sat down, I could clearly hear the entire conversation between the doctor and the man-patient.

On my first visit, the doctor’s cell phone rang while I sat in the only empty chair in the triage room, and - without a word to me (like, say, "Excuse me") - he answered it and promptly left the room. The woman just took over with the questions about my medical history. When her cell phone rang, too, she did the same thing the doctor did - answered it and ignored me completely. I felt cornered, since I needed meds. I should’ve promptly looked for a new doctor after this strange appointment. Alas, I got the ordered blood work and wanted to know the results. Plus I had all these new symptoms.

My appointment was at 12:30 pm. I arrived five minutes early, the waiting room was pretty full. I was immediately annoyed - they’d obviously overbooked their time slots. My irritation was only increased when the lady-I-presume-to-be-Missus-doctor called back two people that arrived after I had before me. The second lady, bless her heart, told the vile Missus-doctor that I had arrived first and that it was my turn. If only that had helped…

So, I pull out my note and begin trying to discuss my problems with this moron-with-a-medical-degree. He interrupted me to show me the blood work results were fine, that only my TSH was a little high (5.67 when it should be between 0.34 and 5.60). Swell. Can I get a copy of that? Well, he doesn’t have a copier, but he supposes I can have the only copy. He did a complete fasting blood work panel, but only tested the TSH (no T3, no T4), despite knowing that I have Hashimoto’s!

So, my shoulder has been aching… He asks if I injured it or if there was some sort of trauma. No, but I have been researching, I tell him, and I think it’s possible that it’s a symptom of Hashimoto’s, like the anxiety. Again, he interrupts me to tell me that a sore shoulder is not a Hashimoto’s symptom and begins explaining what the high numbers mean. I interrupt him and finish the explanation - I fucking understand that the TSH is high because the thyroid isn’t functioning so the pituitary gland is releasing more TSH into the bloodstream and all of that, thankyouverymuch. And he says that the thyroid (points at neck) has nothing to do with the shoulder (points at shoulder). Exacerbated, I request a referral to an endocrinologist. The disgusting Missus-doctor, who had been on her cell phone in the same room as us the entire time, is now off the telephone and interrupts with a hearty "We handle thyroid issues here. No referral."

I stood up. "Then I’ll find a doctor who will." And walked out.

What a fucking nightmare. I called the insurance company and asked for a new PCP. I also asked to file a complaint.

In the meantime, I did learn that I can get myself into a psych eval somewhere in town without a referral. I need to treat the anxiety if nothing else.

My apologies for the delayed absence. As you no doubt have read, things have been rough ’round here lately. It has made it hard for me to find inspiration to write. But things are getting better. Not necessarily financially, mind you. Work is still extremely slow and I am still having issues with colleagues and getting a decent section at work.

However, last Friday I was given a pretty good one and made the most I’ve ever made in a single shift at work. Further, our deposit on our electric bill was returned to us and it covered this months bill. Husband and I have both been actively looking for jobs and I did receive an offer for a waitressing job at another restaurant. I have mixed feelings taking the job when they are only open 2 days during Christmas week and 3 days the following week, particularly considering we are so broke. Husband applied for a job that sounds pretty promising. We should hear back by tomorrow. *Fingers crossed*

Things have been good in other areas of our lives, though. Throughout the month of December and in lieu of a more traditional American Christmas, members of my immediate and extended family are volunteering in our community at The Healing Place women’s campus. The Healing Place is a “Home Sweet Homeless Shelter” and recovery center for addicts and also serves as shelter for victims of domestic violence. It is immensely rewarding. It is also incredibly humbling and therapeutic for me.

Joy has joined the school’s Step Team. She’s been practicing and doing quite well and - most importantly - really enjoys herself. However, she has been really whiney and argumentative lately.

As for the boy, we went to the doctor for shots last week and he is almost 30lbs! He learns new words everyday, crazy fast. He is getting tall, too, measured by all the new stuff he can reach, thereby keeping us on our toes non-stop!

My kids are pretty great. Buddha adores his sissy and Joy has her moments when she will play with him for long periods of time (like last night when I took this picture of the two of them “fighting” over the spot on the rocking chair).

After a rough number of days with knitting, I’ve rediscovered it’s joy. I’ve started some projects and completed a hat (although - admittedly - I’m not terribly fond of how it turned out. The top is too nipply for my tastes! I will very likely rip that part back out and try to repair it).

I can’t imagine ever running out of things I want to make. When I told a fellow knitter that several weeks ago, she replied “That’s the best argument for reincarnation I’ve ever heard.” I am now working on a cable scarf. I’m using some acrylic yarn from my early stash and finding that it really is lower quality. Besides being a pretty boring pattern (that makes a beautiful fat cable), I really hate the way the yarn squeaks between the needles.

It’s official: I’m a yarn snob.