Demigoddess the Elder had three teeth pulled yesterday. For over an hour I sat in a chair near her feet, rubbing her ankles as she squirmed and cried in the chair. Twice I had to look away. Once I felt nauseous. But I held it together and tried to talk her through it.
Six shots of novocaine later the dentist still couldn’t extract the last root fragment of one molar, even after the yanking and the blood and the drilling and the cutting and still more yanking. The dentist stitched her up temporarily, and then tried to get her an appointment with an oral surgeon for that afternoon, while I went downstairs to the pharmacy to fill her pain meds prescriptions.
I waited patiently in line, flanked by wobbling old people, as Shirley MacClaine screamed in my head, “GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE PILLLLLLLLLLLLS!” But outwardly, I was calm.
The oral surgeon wasn’t available until this morning, so I took Demi the Elder home. I replaced her bloody gauze, tucked her into bed, gave her some meds, and then went to the kitchen to get her a dish of sherbet.
And that’s when I fell apart.