Dental Anxiety, Advocating for YOU

As I got off the elevator, I could feel tears beginning to prick the back of my eyes. Why was I about to cry? I could tell my heart rate was elevating, and I was breathing harder than I preferred behind my mask. My husband was behind me and put a hand on my back. I paused in the hallway before walking in, saying I just needed a minute, then escaped to the restroom I had just seen around the corner. Pulling my mask down in the stall, I exhaled trying to calm my nerves. While washing my hands in the mirror I smiled before reapplying my mask to my face, pondering if I really needed to go through with this after all. I could simply get back in the car and drive far, far away. Instead I made myself go back down the hall and push open the door of my destination. 

Was I about to put my dog down? Did I have to donate a kidney? Was I about to sacrifice my first born child in a fiery pit of doom? Nope. Nothing like that. I simply needed a root canal. 

For whatever reason, I have dental anxiety. Even saying that aloud or typing it truly feels silly or even too formal. But I cannot shirk the truth, which is mostly what this blog is about. Pretending that I’m unbothered by dental work has not served me. So here is my truth. The dentist, dental cleanings, dental procedures, and opening my mouth with the intention of seeking care from an oral health professional, gives me anxiety. I get clammy, my heart rate speeds up, I’m unfortunately hyper aware of my tongue and how large it actually is and the likelihood that I could swallow it and choke and die, and I can think of nothing else but pushing away gloved hands and running rogue out of the clinic I’m in. 

But let me start at the beginning. I had braces in middle school and high school. It wasn’t an awesome experience. I know no one LOVES getting braces adhered to their teeth but for whatever reason I always felt that my orthodontist was unnecessarily rough. And of course the process hurt. I also had a very painful wisdom tooth removal, in which I delightfully also got mono, which was the end of my life as a 16 year old girl with a very busy schedule and things to do. My face swelled up like a beaver and I was miserable. I also had a procedure to remove excess gum tissue between my two front teeth so that the gap between them could close. That was maybe the worst, and the pain lasted wayyyy too long. Then as an adult I kind of went to the dentist and kind of didn’t. Living in Houston, it just didn’t feel like a priority. Towards the end of my time there I decided I did indeed need a cleaning, and had a terrible experience with a general dentist there who wouldn’t leave me alone about some baby teeth. 

Yes yes, I have two baby teeth still currently in my mouth. I was blessed with these teeth that don’t have a grown up tooth under them, so they’ve never been pushed out of my mouth. I had this pact with the dentist I grew up with back home that if they were fine, let them be. Then this new dentist in Houston saw my teeth and freaked. He wanted me to pull these bad boys right away (no!) and start a very costly procedure to get the implants placed that would have to replace the babies. He made it seem like this needed to happen yesterday. I walked out of his office after my cleaning and never went back… This was maybe the catalyst of my true real life dental anxiety. Dr. Pull Your Teeth Now ruined me for good.

Fast forward, I’m now in Saint Charles and a mom of two. Over the years I’ve been here  I have built some rapport with my general dentist. She’s a mom about my age, and her hygienists are gentle and take their time to help me. And no one pushed me about my baby teeth hanging on like a thread in my gums. I did consult with a periodontist per her request when I was newly postpartum with my second daughter, and ultimately decided postpartum with an infant was not the time to be digging teeth out of my mouth or suffering through a procedure. I also brought my infant with me to that appointment, and of course she got fussy and of course my anxiety was on full force and of course I nursed her in the chair, trying to play it cool, while the dude periodontist told me all about how those baby teeth just aren’t going to last long. That experience probably didn’t help me out  on the anxiety front in any way either.

I didn’t divulge my anxiety to my general dentist until last summer. Instead I would sit in my car before going in for a regular biannual cleaning and repeat mantras to myself. “I’m a bad b*tch. I can go to the dentist. I birth babies like a badass. I run my own business. I am a refined, strong woman and the dentist makes me a better person, or at least makes sure that I won’t get periodontal disease.” Then I would go inside and pretend to be a normal human while they did their job, accidentally torturing me with their Sucky McSuckerson thing that makes my inner lips feel like the Sahara Dessert and their scrappy pokey instruments they borrow from medieval torture chambers. All was working out okay until I pointed out that my front top tooth was more yellow than the one next to it. Thinking my dentist would recommend some Crest whitestrips or laying off the coffee, I was naively unaware that this yellow tooth in fact was in need of a… dum dum dum, ROOT CANAL. After my dentist did the test with the insanely cold cotton swab that she sticks on all my teeth and asks how bad it hurts (it hurts one million percent, thank you) then stuck it on my yellow tooth and asked… and I felt nothing…It was revealed that yes. Yes, a root canal was in my future. 

As she got up to leave, she looked back at me, then sat down. My stupid face with my stupid very readable emotions had given me away. The gig was up. I had to tell her about my anxiety. Tears were creeping up behind my eyeballs (a common theme here) and my voice got all weird as I said “I think I have dental anxiety, and I don’t think I can get a root canal.” Immediately my sweet dentist helped to reassure me. She referred me to a female endodontist and promised me that I could be prescribed a one time medication for the anxiety. I agreed to go to a consult for the root canal. 

In the fall of last year I scheduled this consultation, and made myself explain to the endodontist my woes. She heard everything I said, took the time to explain the root canal procedure, and promised to help me get through it. She was so great, I decided to bring up my baby teeth. I asked if she could possibly do the implant procedure. Why not? We were jiving. She was listening to me, and it does need to be done. She unfortunately cannot do that procedure, but pulled in her colleague who, ironically, was the periodontist I had consulted with almost two years before. Dr. Maybe Saw My Boobs alive and in the flesh. She made him hear me about my anxiety. He gave me a “good ole boy” style punch on the shoulder while saying something along the lines of “don’t worry, I got you.” They both also promised me laughing gas, for an additional cost of course, that would definitely help to relax me. Then she prescribed me a pill like a valium that wasn’t valium and I scheduled not only the root canal but also the implant procedure. I left feeling like maybe I could do all of this with the help of my Good Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and drugs. 

Then, I got pregnant. 

Which brings me to the eyes stinging almost crying outside the elevator scene. There I was, barely in my second trimester. I had called the office the same day I got my positive pregnancy test, because of course this root canal was scheduled for the day following. We pushed it to my second trimester and I asked about the implant procedure too. Second trimester would be just fine for that. All was a go. 

I spent time with my midwives beforehand, asking for help. Because unfortunately the valium-not-valium anxiety medication previously prescribed to me was not an option when growing a fetus. My midwives did a little extra digging and found me a pregnancy safe option. I popped that an hour before my procedure and waited for it to take effect. I waited a really long time. I also discussed with the midwives the safety of the laughing gas, and was given the all clear to use it for the procedures. 

My husband and I walked into the office, started signing paperwork, and I noticed on the billing page that laughing gas was not included… I inquired. I was informed that this practice would not use laughing gas for a pregnant woman. I almost crumbled to the floor. I wasn’t going to leave, I couldn’t go through the anxiety of the build up again. So I stayed. I grabbed a million year old copy of a People magazine and pretended to read it in the waiting room next to my husband while I wondered about calling the midwives’ on call number and having them talk to the endodontist. But it was too late, they were calling my name and I was walking to my very own personal torture chamber. The anxiety pill the midwives gave me still definitely was not working. 

The endodontist assistant asked me as I was sitting down what part of the procedure gave me the most anxiety. And then I broke. I couldn’t stop crying and I choked out “oh, basically all of it.” Empathically she gave me a stress ball in the shape of a tooth and assured me this procedure took only about twenty minutes and I could stop for a break at any time. I asked if I could listen to my phone via my earbuds. I had downloaded a guided meditation I hoped would guide me far far away from the leather dental chair I was currently in. 

And let me admit something to you. The procedure didn’t hurt. It wasn’t that bad of a twenty minute scenario to sit through. The endodontist was kind, swift, and gentle. Her assistant was empathetic and caring and offered me an endless supply of clean tissues I completely shredded into strips of unrecognizable white fluff. But you know what was bad? My own brain. I was logical enough to realize I was okay handling the procedure, but was also keenly aware that my own brain was causing my discomfort. I could feel my heart beating irrationally fast against my ribcage. My armpits were not just a little moist but straight up wet, I had rings of perspiration down the sides of my shirt. I could also feel my shirt clinging to my lower back. The “dam” they placed in my mouth to block my tongue from being in the way felt awkward and I suddenly became afraid that I wasn’t breathing. And I thought of the baby in my belly with a mother who wasn’t breathing and whose heart rate was basically saying “hey kiddo, sorry! Your mom is about to be eaten by a bear!” 

When everything was over I was left with a hole in the back of my tooth with a rough temporary filling over it. It felt scratchy and annoying against my tongue and I probably could have asked for it to be better but I grabbed my coat, squared up with the receptionist and basically bolted out of there to find my husband (who was calmly and stoically taking work calls in the car). On the way home… the anxiety medication kicked in. Or maybe the natural part of “flight or fight” was taking over and I was crashing from the adrenaline. Regardless, I was a worthless piece of mush and I spent the rest of the day sitting in a puddle of flesh on my couch, wondering what in the world was up with my brain. 

Me, post root canal, feeling and looking like a pile of mush.

After dissecting this all in the following days, I realized some very important things. One of the first being that I need to work with female dental professionals only. The comfort and empathy the endodontist and her assistant were able to provide to me I knew came from their femininity. Nothing against dudes, but it was just better. The other thing was that I had one million questions and concerns to address before I would be able to sit through the more intense procedure for the implants I had coming up. 

In the week following I had a follow up appointment with my general dentist for my root canal. I was able to talk to my therapist beforehand and had a literal paper list of questions to get through. In preparation, I called ahead and asked the receptionist to block out an extra couple of minutes for me to talk with her. I also had done some research on my own and found a periodontist in my area that could do the implant procedure. She is female, and she does the procedure primarily with the patient under general anesthesia. This was very appealing to me and I wanted to see what my dentist thought about it. 

After hearing me describe how awful my body handled the anxiety of the root canal, my dentist didn’t even wait for me to ask about the new periodontist. She flat out said “you are not going to do this implant procedure next week. You need to do this postpartum, under general.” I was instantly relieved. I explained that I had found a female practitioner and that I would perhaps like to work with her. My dentist agreed that was a good move, and took it on herself to reach out and make the connection and basically vet the doctor and the practice for me. She even canceled my existing appointment for the implant procedure so I wouldn’t have to go through calling the office to explain. During this conversation, I could literally feel a knot in my chest releasing. It felt like what it looks like when you clear a clog in a drain, or when you come in from unloading groceries and the weight of all the bags is literally pulling you down but then you peel off the plastic bags and you instantly feel relief and a million pounds lighter. I felt heard and taken care of. This burden and this anxiety were being cared for with help from other people and it felt good. 

So, to summarize a very very very long story… Sometimes we have to do things for our health that we don’t want to do. Like pull baby teeth and get all your teeth cleaned twice a year. Finding practitioners that hear you and your concerns and address your needs is worth more than gold. So many people have helped me come to this place I’m currently at, waiting to do a procedure in the best way for my body. My midwives helped me the best they could to find medication to alleviate the anxiety. My therapist helped me digest the anxiety and come up with a game plan. And the real MVP, my general dentist, who is doing some major leg work in helping me find the surgeon I’m most comfortable with. In all of this I have also realized, this is why I choose to birth unmedicated with midwives. It puts me in control of my body and the choices around my care; I feel heard. It’s a good feeling in birth, and apparently also a good feeling for dentistry.

I’m still not looking forward to the implant procedure or the toothless months following (you have to wait a minimum of three months following pulling the baby teeth for the screws in your jaw to heal to the bone before they can place the permanent crowns). But I know now how to advocate for myself. How to describe how I feel during dental care, and how to get my questions answered. And I know I have a care team that is truly, 100% on my team. 

What does this have to do with fitness, pregnancy, etc? Well girl. Pretty much everything. This message I hope encourages you to listen to your gut, to build your team of care providers, and to advocate for yourself in hard situations. This is so important for your long term well being, and for your kids! I feel like now I know how to “fight” I will never leave another care provider feeling unheard or unseen because I’m afraid of rocking the boat. And how many times as a mother do you feel that way? Maybe it’s because of a rushed pediatrician appointment, or as you navigate a VBAC, or at your own dentist. Maybe it’s at the gym when you’re not sure the movement your trainer is asking you to do is the best for YOUR body. Use your voice! Ask questions, explain your needs! If I can do it, you can do it too. 

I’m so curious if other moms have had to go through anything like this before. I’ll report back after I meet with the new female surgeon. In the meantime reach out to me and tell me your stories like this, they empower me! Also, if I can be the caring, empathetic, “listen to your story” person you need for your fitness journey I am SO here for that. I got you girl, for real.