This morning, a seemingly insignificant verbal exchange triggered me intensely. I didn’t really understand why in the moment, but I was instantly heart-pounding-out-of-my-chest, head-throbbing, ready-to-explode, upset. I needed to catch my breath. I stepped outside, felt the shock of cool rain drizzle onto my bare arms and face and felt like I had run a hot pan under the cold faucet. Steam was emanating from me. My skin seemed to sizzle. I sat there breathing with control in my attempt to calm down. I wanted to run inside and explain all the ways in which I was angry, wanted to throw the towel in and call the day a wash. Instead I sat there on the steps and I labelled my emotions. I shared them – with friends, personally, and then here. I felt lighter, but they still felt bottled up. Determined not to let them get the better of me, I jumped up and inside, into my workout without holding back. I sweat through them. I refuelled. I showered. I hydrated. I realized then, once it was quiet, that it was not what was said, but the implied impression that I so often get, that it isn’t as challenging as it is, to manage the current stage of my child’s disorders.
For many people, having a child with challenges may look one way on the surface, but is likely incredibly complex underneath. Depending on what other stressors one is juggling, and the state of burnout they may be in, something someone else could brush off in a matter of minutes, may be deeply distressing.
My sleep was disrupted most of the night (chronically). I then spent the morning navigating fractions with my kid, who was already dysregulated by the presence of a supply teacher on his “Fun Friday,” only to be called names, have things thrown at me and made to sit through furniture being overturned, and my things broken. His explosion is one of confused thoughts and feelings. I maintained composure throughout, cognizant of the full day and evening ahead. Just as I thought we had made it through the rough patch, the idea of cancelling his dental appointment was suggested flippantly by another adult, and I snapped.
What I realized once I had allowed myself the time to process my feelings, is the feeling of rejection. My experience being rejected. The gravity of our interactions, invalidated. The mere idea of the dentist for someone with sensory issues and multiple other diagnoses, can be a terrifying personal attack, like for my son – emotionally and physically. The act of teeth-brushing twice daily (if we’re lucky), is a build-up of routine and schedules, of sensory tools and coaxing. It’s fraught with squirming and writhing, of moaning and often tears. In order to get to the dentist, the excursion itself has to be broken down into multiple steps of preparation, and the act of arriving here, is only half the battle.
He sits on the chair easily today, lowers his body back, and allows his head to lay cautiously on the headrest. After a few breaths, he removes his face mask with hesitation. On our last visit, this step alone took over twenty minutes of persuasion. The lights have to be at the right brightness level, the tv overhead, must be playing something pre-chosen, and therefore relaxing. The presence of only Dr. Karen and her endless patience are required – certainly no hygienists or siblings allowed. Perhaps the familiarity of the conversation between Dr. Karen and I, who have become friends, and the repetition of seeing her same colleague for the third time since September, but today H permits Dental Hygienist Kathryn to stay as well. With H’s permission, Dr. Karen places a paper dental towel across his chest – nothing that clips on for this child. She works her way through her exam with speed and agility, relaying clinical notes to Kathryn to enter them into the computer. H’s grip on my hand loosens and he prepares to sit up. His eyes widen with fear as he realizes that although Dr. Karen has stood up and stepped back, the appointment is still ongoing. Until now we’ve had to have the office to ourselves and only Dr. Karen has been able to work on H’s mouth. She assures him that Kathryn is amazing. With H’s visual okay, Kathryn is promoted to first chair for the cleaning. Dr. Karen looks on but takes a step back. We walk H through the steps of what’s about to happen, several times, break it down into only the first two, and eventually brave only one step forward. They usually test out equipment on H’s skin first, explain their operation, how quick they will be used, what sound they will make, and I regulate my breath together with H to calm him.
Today, they only require manual instruments; nothing electronic or with moving parts. A demonstration is still necessary. Assurances are made. On any given visit, the dentist may get one tooth – or all – checked. We may need to sit and wait longer, allowing emotional regulation to occur before proceeding. We may need to be left alone to talk through it and find calm. We may roll through and find ourselves at the fluoride painting stage, in shock and surprise that we made it unscathed! We really never know.
This morning, a seemingly insignificant verbal exchange triggered me intensely. I didn’t really understand why in the moment, but I was instantly heart-pounding-out-of-my-chest, head-throbbing, ready-to-explode, upset. I needed to catch my breath. I stepped outside, felt the shock of cool rain drizzle onto my bare arms and face and felt like I had run a hot pan under the cold faucet. Steam was emanating from me. My skin seemed to sizzle. I sat there breathing with control in my attempt to calm down. I wanted to run inside and explain all the ways in which I was angry, wanted to throw the towel in and call the day a wash. Instead I sat there on the steps and I labelled my emotions. I shared them – with friends, personally, and then here. I felt lighter, but they still felt bottled up. Determined not to let them get the better of me, I jumped up and inside, into my workout without holding back. I sweat through them. I refuelled. I showered. I hydrated. I realized then, once it was quiet, that it was not what was said, but the implied impression that I so often get, that it isn’t as challenging as it is, to manage the current stage of my child’s disorders.
For many people, having a child with challenges may look one way on the surface, but is likely incredibly complex underneath. Depending on what other stressors one is juggling, and the state of burnout they may be in, something someone else could brush off in a matter of minutes, may be deeply distressing.
My sleep was disrupted most of the night (chronically). I then spent the morning navigating fractions with my kid, who was already dysregulated by the presence of a supply teacher on his “Fun Friday,” only to be called names, have things thrown at me and made to sit through furniture being overturned, and my things broken. His explosion is one of confused thoughts and feelings. I maintained composure throughout, cognizant of the full day and evening ahead. Just as I thought we had made it through the rough patch, the idea of cancelling his dental appointment was suggested flippantly by another adult, and I snapped.
What I realized once I had allowed myself the time to process my feelings, is the feeling of rejection. My experience being rejected. The gravity of our interactions, invalidated. The mere idea of the dentist for someone with sensory issues and multiple other diagnoses, can be a terrifying personal attack, like for my son – emotionally and physically. The act of teeth-brushing twice daily (if we’re lucky), is a build-up of routine and schedules, of sensory tools and coaxing. It’s fraught with squirming and writhing, of moaning and often tears. In order to get to the dentist, the excursion itself has to be broken down into multiple steps of preparation, and the act of arriving here, is only half the battle.
He sits on the chair easily today, lowers his body back, and allows his head to lay cautiously on the headrest. After a few breaths, he removes his face mask with hesitation. On our last visit, this step alone took over twenty minutes of persuasion. The lights have to be at the right brightness level, the tv overhead, must be playing something pre-chosen, and therefore relaxing. The presence of only Dr. Karen and her endless patience are required – certainly no hygienists or siblings allowed. Perhaps the familiarity of the conversation between Dr. Karen and I, who have become friends, and the repetition of seeing her same colleague for the third time since September, but today H permits Dental Hygienist Kathryn to stay as well. With H’s permission, Dr. Karen places a paper dental towel across his chest – nothing that clips on for this child. She works her way through her exam with speed and agility, relaying clinical notes to Kathryn to enter them into the computer. H’s grip on my hand loosens and he prepares to sit up. His eyes widen with fear as he realizes that although Dr. Karen has stood up and stepped back, the appointment is still ongoing. Until now we’ve had to have the office to ourselves and only Dr. Karen has been able to work on H’s mouth. She assures him that Kathryn is amazing. With H’s visual okay, Kathryn is promoted to first chair for the cleaning. Dr. Karen looks on but takes a step back. We walk H through the steps of what’s about to happen, several times, break it down into only the first two, and eventually brave only one step forward. They usually test out equipment on H’s skin first, explain their operation, how quick they will be used, what sound they will make, and I regulate my breath together with H to calm him.
Today, they only require manual instruments; nothing electronic or with moving parts. A demonstration is still necessary. Assurances are made. On any given visit, the dentist may get one tooth – or all – checked. We may need to sit and wait longer, allowing emotional regulation to occur before proceeding. We may need to be left alone to talk through it and find calm. We may roll through and find ourselves at the fluoride painting stage, in shock and surprise that we made it unscathed! We really never know.
His skin pales and a cold sheen spreads across his forehead. My hand is clenched in his – his grip is tight and clammy. My other hand runs back and forth on his leg then on his arm, other times my entire upper body may need to lean on him, the sensory need of pressure and weight is often helpful. Sometimes the weighted x-ray vest helps, others, it feels suffocating. For a kid with who is both sensory averse and sensory seeking, even asking what may help is maddening for him. Often feelings bubble up and overflow until they are allowed to release in a cathartic explosion, before subsiding, allowing calmness to reconvene. When they can’t, we also can’t move forward.
Kathryn seems to have chosen the dullest, least obtrusive, dental explorer in her set, to begin scaling. Today H is skeptical of that tool used to scrape each tooth at its gum line, and this one doesn’t even look like it could scrape! He is convinced it is not the same one used at past appointments (if anything, it’s not as sharp and daunting), and yet he thinks we are somehow conspiring against him. For what purpose, I’m not sure, but thankfully, we are able to reassure him of our innocence, and Kathryn sets about cleaning delicately, yet with formidable speed.
He was relieved to know that the paste typically polished on with a familiar whir of an electronic dental handpiece, has been nixed in covid protocols of being in the Grey Zone, here in Toronto. The fluoride varnish, however, was a less convincing transaction. There was no way to assuage his fears of what horror Kathryn was suggesting that she paint across his teeth. His jaw clenches and his lips lock shut. His hands unclench from mine and his arms push his body reflexively from the chair. I lean in to make sure our eyes meet beyond the tint of his protective sunglasses.
“You can do this H. You worry about this every time, are convinced to let them do it, and are surprised by how quick it is. You can do this,” I whisper to him rhythmically.
Dr. Karen is back and does her best to convince him as well. They offer a different flavour and attempt to distract with conversation. It looks doubtful, and we are about to fold when Kathryn brilliantly suggests that if H wants, he can stand by the sink and open his mouth.
“I’ll do a quick wipe up top, then down below,” she says as she demonstrates across her gloved hand. “You can have your cup of water ready and swish and spit immediately.”
H seems reluctant, but takes the bait, and agrees. We try to make light by reminiscing about the fluoride trays of our youth, but H wants us to quit the chit-chat and be done with it. He grips the sink edge with one hand, his cup ready with the other. My hand rubs his back and he squeezes his eyes shut tight as he opens his mouth slightly. Kathryn prompts him to widen just a touch, and she’s in and out in a few seconds. He rinses several times, with an aggressive spit after each, and pivots to exit, muttering a “bye” under his breath. I catch Kathryn’s gaze and mouth a silent emphatic THANK YOU, before saying bye and heading back out into reception. H joins me but only after choosing a small silver tow truck from the prize bin and I smile, happy to see that he is still my little boy.
After his appointment we are both exhausted, and the drive home is usually in silence. Today is no different, despite C being in the car with us as well. We park and they enter the house while I take a minute longer alone in the car. Once inside, H may be allowed the freedom of unwinding – usually with a tv show or video game. I, on the other hand, usually jump into managing the physical and emotional needs of my other kids, mother, husband and dog. I’m doing better with implementing buffers at these transitions, so that I’m able to reset and begin each scene fresh. I check my messages and compose myself, take a deep breath and head into the chaos.
Nothing is ever “just” a routine visit. If anything is certain, it’s that nothing is predictable and I’m learning to roll with it. Take the silver tow truck: he handed it over immediately to his little brother as the surprise he “brought home especially for him.” See, there’s empathy and kindness in there too.
I realized today that even those closest to us don’t really understand what’s involved when booking an appointment for my kids.
I’m hoping more do now.
If you live in the west end of Toronto and could benefit from a dentist experienced with kids of all needs, try www. superkidsdentistry.ca or IG @superkids_dentistry and you’ll be so glad you did. (Not Sponsored)