The Straitjacket

Today was all over the place. I made plans to fulfill a long-held dream (which I can't share yet because I have to tell my mother first!), among other things. It will always be a day that rocked my world.

And it included a trip to the pediatric dentist for Caroline. It wasn't her first visit, of course, but I decided that she finally needed to get her teeth cleaned after four years (she's always refused before). After twenty minutes of cajoling her into the chair, she still couldn't relax enough to let the teeth-cleaning happen.

DO NOT JUDGE ME. Apparently there's something called a ped wrap or something like that. No. It's basically a miniature straitjacket that restrains the child from neck to toe. My child needed clean teeth. I'm sure you can figure out what happened next. I gave my consent, but I did not participate.

Caroline was hysterical. My hands never left her body. As soon as they laid her down, the dentist and hygienist dove into her mouth. (Although it might not sound like it, I love this dental practice. They were really good with her. Plus, they complimented us on her exceptionally clean teeth.)

And, cue the NICU flashbacks. The scene was identical: bright lights, loud noises, tubes everywhere, lots of things going into my child's mouth. Except this child was about 36 pounds larger. I just lost it, right there, and I had to turn away from Caroline so she wouldn't see me weeping and get even more upset. Like the NICU staff, pediatric dentists have to "treat" the parents just as much as the little patients. And treat she did.

I was able to pull it together after a couple of minutes and turn my head back toward my screaming child. She finally calmed down a bit toward the end. The cleaning and exam only took about five minutes. When they "released" her from the damn straitjacket, she was soaking in sweat.  Then she smiled, smacked her lips together, and said, "Ohhh, my teeth are so healthy."

As all parents know, watching your child hurt is pure agony. Especially when it includes flashbacks of your dead child's suffering. These scenarios still take me by surprise. Who would have thought a dental visit would be so traumatic? Now it's obvious. Caroline was fine within thirty seconds of finishing, but I'm still upset about the whole experience.

However, Weston came up with the dental staff. I told them he died, because they asked why they hadn't seen my second child at the office. There's no escaping that one. But guess what they did: they asked me how he died. And that is another reason why I love this dental practice.