I Wanna Be Sedated

As women, we can most certainly be critical of ourselves in many ways.  Ask any female friend what she may not like about her appearance and holy crackers- let the airing of grievances begin.  With all that, I really believe that we must take pride in the things we like about ourselves as easily as it is to list off all the things we don’t.  While this is easier said than done, I will be honest in that the one thing that I can always fall back on is that I feel like I have a great smile; one that is genuine, sweet, and conveys joy.  A shout out to Dr. Claus and my parents for having me suffer through 4 years of braces- it was totally worth it.  It’s something that I really like about myself.  In order to keep my smile shiny and healthy, unfortunately this requires that I must do something that I hate-

Go to the dentist.

Actually, I should clarify; I don’t just hate going to the dentist, I despise it.  Without a doubt it is my biggest fear- and this from the girl that has encountered snakes, cockroaches and used car salesmen on my own.  I feel that I can take on a lot, but when it comes to the dentist, forgetaboutit.

I believe it stems from a traumatic event I had as a kid where I had to have a tooth pulled, and while I will spare you the details I clearly remember my mom coming to get me out of the room before they were even able to start the procedure.  Perhaps it was my incessant screaming that she could hear from the waiting room that triggered the response, but nonetheless, my life-long fear was set.  Now, to even get a cleaning I have to psych myself up, remind myself that it will last less than an hour and I will feel great when it’s all said and done.  I delivered this speech to myself just before the holidays when my 6 month appointment came due, and after I thought I had gotten through the worst the dentist informed me that I needed to come back and see him. Sadly, it was not because he was so taken with my stunning smile- but because I had a cavity.

Damn.

So, I made the follow up appointment, and then canceled it.  Made it again, and then canceled it again. Finally, here I am a few months later and worked myself up with the “OhmyGodyouareanadultstartactinglikeone!” speech and set the appointment for last Friday.  I even put a DNC! reminder for myself next to the time- Do Not Cancel.  For some reason I believe that this actually holds me more accountable.

The morning of the appointment I enjoyed a breakfast of champions that consisted of coffee and not one- but two- Xanax (yes, Dentist appointments are the reason why I have these.  I’m not kidding about this fear, people).  I get there, headphones in hand with relaxing music and my mantra of “it’s only an hour and it will be done”.  I was kinda hoping they would great me in the waiting room with the Nitrous that I requested, but alas they actually make me walk all the way back to the chair on my own.  I am trying to laugh it off when the hygienist asks me if I want the gas now or only for the drilling and I answer “Well, wouldn’t it be easier for you if we just get it set up now?” I say in what I actually believe is a casual tone and if this was actually for her benefit.  What I am really thinking is “Yes. Now. Or how about 5 minutes ago?  That would be good, too.”  So I set up camp in the chair, some tunes that are supposed to calm me piped into my ears, and I tell the technician the rule of  “Please just tell me when the drilling is done.”  I think to myself, what’s the worst that it can be- like, 15 minutes, right? OK.  I can do that.  I’ve delivered two children.  I’ve had the procedure to fix a genetic heart problem- twice.  I can handle this.

Then the dentist walks in.  He administered a Novocain shot for what I feel is like a solid 10 minutes.  Then I realize why.  I can clearly hear him say “Oh yeah, this is bad.  Really deep on this one.”  I seriously contemplate taking the clear plastic mask off my nose and making a run for it, but I tell myself to just get it over with.

He comes back a few minutes later and then it starts.

For me, the drilling is like a personalized version of Hell.  I do everything to try to ignore it, but how can you shut out what sounds and feels like that air impact wrench they use to change tires in Nascar? I count to 100, try to say the ABCs backwards, remember to take deep breaths through my nose- the gas is there for a reason, girl, use it- and yet through the whole thing the dentist somehow thinks he doing me a favor by giving me the play-by-play:

“Oh yeah- what a mess.  What was the dentist that did this old filling thinking?  It’s not rocket science, you know.”

“This is really worse that we thought.”

And then…

“Young lady, I’m not going to lie.  This is a problem.  You’re going to need a root canal.”

Question- have you ever been lying horizontal in a dentist chair, mouth clamped open, that sucky thing hanging out of the side, tears streaming down your face while you try to hold the sobbing in?  Yep. It was pretty much like that.

I feel ridiculous.  Here I am a 40+ woman crying at the dentist and just wishing someone was there to hold my hand like I was 5. 

He goes on to tell me numerous other things, but when he gets to the point where he mentions the tooth now won’t stop bleeding I give him the frantic international timeout “shut the hell up” sign, because clearly the tears streaming down my face were not enough to let him know I didn’t want to hear any more.

He goes on to try to repair the tooth to as much as possible in preparation for the procedure I will need next, and after an hour and a half in the chair he says that he will meet with me to discuss next steps.  The hygienist removes all apparatuses and the infamous paper bib, and I get myself together and head out to the front of the office.

The Dentist greats me with a panoramic x-ray and the same clearly well-educated and experienced but yet cold matter-of-fact conversation.

“Look,” he says, “I am looking at this thing, and I just want to tell you, a root canal is not going to cut it.  Your nerves are long and thin” (and I think, how ironic, the one thing I happen to like about myself is the only thing about me that is long and thin) “and it’s just going to have to come out”.

Um, what?

He goes on to say  it’ a multiple months’ procedure, something about a bone graph and implant, and I seriously do not really hear him. I know from the genetics pool I was stuck with thin teeth (thanks, mom) and a bad ticker (thanks, dad) but OMG I am 41 and you are telling me that I need to have a tooth taken out? Right about now I am feeling bad for myself and also mortified as I am yet again trying to keep the crying in as he is telling me this IN THE WAITING ROOM.  I just want to believe it’s not real, but oh yes, it’s very real as he then tells me I need to go see the oral surgeon as soon as I leave him.  I am clearly a little dazed and confused- and not because of the Nitrous- as I swear I had no pain or problems at all and now it has turned into this.

So I got into the car, cleaned myself up a bit, but being a red-head it is so obvious when we cry because the fair skin gets all blotchy there is no hiding it, and head over to see the surgeon to make an appointment.  I have the consult next Tuesday, and I’m thinking I may need some Nitrous just to get me through the conversation.  All I know is that I am trying to find something to be grateful for in all this, and I guess it’s that for the next few procedures I will be completely knocked out, so I there’s not chance I will have to listen to any sideline commentary.  I honestly don’t even want to know what it’s going to cost, but I do know that I would gladly pay double to not have to go through it at all.  Sadly, I know that’s not an option.

So yes, I am (slightly) embarrassed that this is what my fear is, and this is what it looks like to me.  I keep telling myself that everyone has something, this just happens to be my ‘thing”, and yes, I will get through it. Perhaps the other silver lining is that maybe I’ll have to be on a liquid diet for some time, and perhaps that will help make my hips a little more long and thin.  Who am I kidding?  This is going to take a whole different type of liquid to get me through the next few months.

Thank goodness for the health benefits of wine. 

Simple Syrup

One of my secret goals in life is to one day be like my Grandma Hildegard. 

Now, I appreciate that my memories are distilled through the eyes of a 6 year old, however this woman rocked.  What I remember so distinctly is that she was always so welcoming, greeting you with a big smile and ever-present apron around her waist.  She and my grandfather didn’t have much, but that never seemed to bother her.  I remember her outside of their small home working a tiny garden around the shed, wide brimmed floppy hat on her head to cover the fair skin of the once red-head where my mom, girls and I clearly all get it from.  Once I had taken some dried lima beans from their kitchen and secretly planted them in some tiny patch of ground in the garden just to see what would happen.  I would like to say “always the scientist”, but in reality it was an impulsive move that I quickly forgot all about until one day she called my mom wondering why there were lima beans growing in her garden. While I don’t know for sure how she reacted, in my mind, and in my heart, I can see her laughing.

However the one thing that Hildegard was truly known for was that woman could cook.

I don’t mean fancy, farm-to-table fare, but just true home cookin’ made with love.

In infamous tales told during family gatherings that just naturally have their way of expanding as the years go by, the stories of how you would show up and there would be a spread a mile wide are told.  And whatever type of desert was your favorite, she’d have it.  As in, like, multiple pies.  And ice cream and chocolate syrup for the kids.  And the candy drawer that she would keep bite size Butterfingers in and always look away when you were sneaking one. And her fudge- oh Lord- the one that sends you into a diabetic coma after one bite and that both my girls still ask for made by the recipe that was passed down.  

I like to think that I got a small sliver of her cooking gene, as that is one thing that I love to do. Cooking makes me happy.  All parts of it- discovering recipes, trying new ingredients, the cooking process, the amazing feeling when you get it right. But most of all it’s cooking for others and seeing the joy on their face as they indulge in something that you made.  Something that was made with love. 

“Back in the day” (AKA- when I was married) I used to cook all the time.  It was wonderful to plan out big dinner parties, bring dishes to tailgates for multiple families and participate in recipe exchanges with friends.  Post-Divorce, all that went out the window.  Not intentionally, but the scope of what I was capable of achieving was pared down to simple survival mode.  (Heck, I don’t think the girls and I even ate off of real plates for the first two years simply because I didn’t have time to do the dishes.  I’m not kidding.  I’m still trying to make up my environmental footprint on that one.) But somewhere in the past year or so, the joy of cooking came back into my life. I think it was an accumulation of things; the kids are older, I have a much better handle on life, and perhaps because GG is my budding foodie who will try anything and Belle has been bitten by the baking bug.  And while all of this is true, I think the biggest shift is that I found my joy in the process again.  It no longer feels like something I “had” to do out of necessity nor out of forcing myself to do something that once brought me happiness and so I should keep up with it (if that makes sense), but because it really DOES make me happy now. 

Over the past several months I am proud to say that I have my cooking mojo back revived some of my favorite recipes from long ago. I knocked out all of my Thanksgiving specialties for European visitors, including yellow squash casserole, my secret stuffing recipe and the best roast turkey you will ever have.  I have also perfected a few new gems including stuffed French toast and- if I may say so- a killer fillet made on the cast iron skillet.  I have also tread into new territory, gettin’ jiggy making craft cocktails. It was during one of these mixology sessions where I was making simple syrup- sugar and water that can be infused with specialty ingredients such as sage or ginger, and boiled down to a thick, flavorful liquid- when something hit me. 

Life really is like simple syrup. 

As I get older, my friend base has tended to boil down, the activities I plan are fewer just due to life’s demands, but the events and who I spend my time with are much richer.  My time spent with friends add the “flavor” to my life, not a watered down version of well-drinks just for the sake of being out because that was the thing to do.  The people and events are my specialty items that have evolved over time, evolved into something special and sweet.  Without these key ingredients, you know that things might be “ok” but not nearly as good as it could be, because it’s not something that you get to indulge in every day but a specialty item that make the ordinary event extraordinary just because you are enjoying it. 

So to all of you that are the components that make up the simple syrup in my life, I want to thank you.  You make my days richer, sweeter, and full of flavor.  I think this is what my Grandma Hildegard knew all along, and it showed in her cooking and the way she made you feel loved.  She knew that the spice of life was all about who was around the table outside the tiny kitchen where she miraculously made all of the dishes, so full of flavor and love, to celebrate the moments when we were all together.  She made memories through these dishes, and one day, I hope I will be able to say I did the same.

Apron and all.