I went to the dentist on Monday for a regular checkup. My teeth are always exemplary. I haven’t had a cavity in, what, maybe 15 or 20 years. It’s just a matter of cleaning and polishing. This time the hygienist’s pic caught in a soft spot. She had the dentist check it. Yeah, a small bit of decay starting under an old crown.
What was interesting was my reaction. I had a mini-version of the moment in the oncologist’s office when he told us my cancer was Stage III-C. A soft blankness, a backing off of the mind. A momentary floating sensation. Life is going on, people are talking, this is about me, I know that, I know there’ll be consequences to what’s being said, but no one can cry at this point, just take the language coming my way.
It took about ten minutes to numb my jaw and fill the cavity. No big deal.
I’d gone in feeling fine, a little proud of myself for having good teeth, but surprise! Not quite as I thought it would be. I think that’s what triggered the reaction. I thought I was in great health, too, when I got my diagnosis. Then, I thought it would be a little, minor sort of cancer. I’m in great shape, I thought. We’ll take care of this as fast as possible and I’ll be fine. Then. No. A big scary cancer. Nothing, nothing was the way I thought.
I was the one of the three sisters who was going to live to a ripe old age. I was the strongest and healthiest. I could take care of them, even being the oldest. I would surely be able to take care of Jerry. We all seemed to agree on this.
A good lesson in presumptions. We only see the trunk and foliage of a tree. Most of it’s underground.
Another late symptom: I’m clenching and grinding my teeth at night. And I am waking and lying awake sometimes, needing to take some Melatonin to get back to sleep. I’ve always been a great sleeper. Hit the pillow, wake up and it’s morning. Last night I slept fine. The night before, not. No particular reason for one or the other that I can see.
When I was at the dentist, I got fitted for a bite splint to wear at night.
Here’s an analogy: you have a major oil spill in the ocean. The huge vacuum machines move in, barrier bars set in place, the beach is skimmed off, wildlife washed. Millions of dollars are spent. After a while, you can hardly tell there was a spill. But in the water, miniscule droplets of oil. Things aren’t really the same. The subtle damage begins to show itself.
What I might call a deeper level of psychological damage is beginning to show itself. I called it PTSD earlier. This is the more elusive form, coming on now, it seems, working toward the surface so it can be seen. The good news is that it’s working into my awareness. I can imagine, instead, dodging invisible bullets like a soldier returned from Afghanistan.
Too, I still get so tired. It’s been four months since my last chemo. I know I expect too much, but I hate having to spend a chunk of the afternoon taking a nap. If I have too many appointments in one day, I’m bushed. I am not “normal.” Not yet and maybe not ever, completely. 
Normal? What is this “normal,” Kimosabe? [Lone Ranger allusion, for you babies]. What was ever “normal” except the rigidity of my mind that latched onto a conception about myself and hung on? I’ve been in constant motion, constantly changing forever. I am not what I once thought I was. I never was what I thought I was.
I’m tempted to balance the scales here and begin to tell you the upside of seeing this, of knowing this about myself, the freedom of mind it sometimes brings (Whoops, that was an upside). But really, if I do that, I’m just exerting a different rigid pattern: good side/bad side. Not the case.
The case is, I love being alive. I’m plowing into my writing, enjoying my friends, thinking about Jerry’s upcoming back surgery, carrying my own future like a vague cloud over my head, getting a bite splint, going for walks, kicking fall leaves. Some days are sunny and warmish, some not.