Closure

I was not going to write this story, but when I was telling Dad what Kimmie did Thursday afternoon, his response was, "Kimmie Story."

Earlier this week, on Tuesday, we had our semi-annual traumatic trip to the dentist, which turned out to be a bit more traumatic than usual.

Kimmie, of course, is not a very cooperative patient at the dentist. It used to take three people to hold her down and assist the dentist. She has improved immensely over the years and I was able to hold her still by myself for part of the cleaning and exam. To ease things for me one of the assistants helped hold for a while. Kimmie still struggles some and screams some, but not nearly as much as when she was younger.

However, in the midst of trying to pry and prop her mouth open, one of her teeth was popped out. Kimmie's root structure is not very strong and over the years we have had a lot of concerns about her teeth falling out. About 7 years ago she lost one of her permanent teeth. We have been doing what we can over the years to try to keep and strengthen her teeth. We had been very thankful that no others had fallen out. To have one knocked out during a dental exam was disappointing, to say the least.

I was holding Kimmie's hands down, out of the way, when the dentist blurts out, "We've lost a tooth!" I jerked my head up to see and sure enough there was a tooth not attached to anything. The dentist was almost in panic mode . . . "It doesn't have a root." "Is it a primary tooth?"

"No, all her teeth are permanent teeth."

"But there isn't a root. Roots don't dissolve unless there is another tooth coming in behind it."

I asked, "Is there anything we can do?"

"No, nothing!" "She's not a candidate for a retainer or implants!"

The dentist finished her work quickly, apologizing profusely. Kimmie was sobbing pitifully. When she was let up, she slid to the side of the chair and into my arms and sobbed some more. She pointed to the spot where her tooth had been, and I could see her sticking her tongue in the new gap.

Kimmie hugged the dentist, sobbing all over her. Kimmie signed to her, "Cry."

Kimmie signed, "Sorry," which was her way of telling the dentist to say 'sorry.' The dentist signed it back to Kimmie. She said she knew that sign.

Then Kimmie signed 'hurt.' The dentist looked at me and asked what that sign was. I told her.

Then Kimmie signed 'cry' and for emphasis spelled it, c-r-y. The dentist felt very chastised.

I said very little. What was there to say? I was very disappointed, discouraged and depressed that we had lost another tooth, but nothing I said or did would change anything. The dentist was already upset enough, so I herded Kimmie out the door.

At the dentist's office, the routine is for Kimmie to pick a toothbrush on her way into the exam room, and then they use that toothbrush during the exam and send it home with us. For some bizarre reason they also send home the dinosaur shaped floss thing they use during the cleaning. Since Kimmie lost a tooth, they put it in a tooth-shaped holder and sent that home with us. When we arrived home, I put the bag with all this stuff on the kitchen island. I was pretty down and didn't want to deal with it, so I just left it there.

On Thursday afternoon, after school, I heard Kimmie messing with something in the kitchen. When I looked to see what she was doing, she had the tooth box in her hand. I wasn't sure what her reaction was going to be to seeing her tooth, so I walked up beside her. She opened the box and the tooth fell out, bouncing on the counter. I put out my hand and caught it. Kimmie looked at it, turned it over, looked at it some more, picked it up and put it back in the box. She closed the box and set it back on the counter. She looked at the box for a minute, and then she picked it up. As she worked at opening it, I put my hands underneath to catch it if it fell. She opened the box and dumped the tooth into my hands. Then she picked it up, ran around the island, opened the cupboard door, pulled out the trash can and forcefully threw the tooth in the trash.

She looked up and saw the dentist's bag still on the counter. She picked it up, pulled out the floss thing and inspected it. I gently told her that she could throw that away. She didn't need to be told twice; she flung it in the trash.

She reached in the bag again and pulled out the toothbrush. She looked at it for a moment, and then it went in the trash.

She picked up the bag, realized it was empty, wadded it up and threw it away. She pushed the trash can back into the cupboard, closed the cabinet door, and walked away clapping her hands and signing 'finished.' Her face reflected relief. In some way, for Kimmie, this seemed to bring a sense of closure to the episode.

I, on the other hand, was still mourning the loss of that tooth, and wondering if I should dig through the trash to find it.

I tell myself: It's just a tooth. In the big scheme of things this is really minor.

Then I think: But it is permanent. She's 20 years old and these teeth are gone for the rest of her life.

The next dentist appointment will be full of anxiety, for both of us.

--Mom