Thursday, September 03, 2015

last time

The dogs are on strike.  Well, the little ones.  The big boys are fine, the way they always are.  The two little ones are fasting to teach me a lesson.  I assume they are displeased about the disruptions to their normal schedule:  a giant loud party, Shawn out of town, me back to work, roofers crawling around on the shingles during the day….  But of course the dark ink spot on the back of my brain seeps thoughts about cancer and other diseases.  Emory has begun to eat a little bit, resentfully.  Ophelia is still fully on strike.  And of course I am worried about her the most.  She is happiest when I am worried about her and doting on her.


*


This afternoon is part 2 of my dental work, and I am anticipating another round of dizziness to follow my dentist's refusal to cooperate with my need to remain semi-upright.  Yesterday afternoon I went to meet a new dentist.  Once this work is complete I am switching.  

I like the new dentist.  She is young (my version of young has changed.  She is probably 40) and was wearing high heels, which I immediately called her out on.  Who does a standing-up job in high heels?  She said she's more comfortable in them, which makes her cuckoo, and I like that.  

However, I do not like her office.  In fact I hate it.  It is a renovated old house (which sounds good but it's not, because…); the chairs go around the perimeter of one large room, with small dividers between the chairs, and with a work station in the middle, like a beehive, where all the hygienists buzz in and out gathering honey and carrying it out on silver trays.  The clients can all see into each other's areas with any effort whatsoever. When I arrived at the office the first sight to greet me was a person wearing a plastic mouth stretcher thing that looked a little like a horse and bit.  I could see every single one of his teeth, and I did not want to.  I'm growing increasingly more anxious about dentists as I get older and more and more neurotic.  A computer screen sat visible by my dental chair where I could read all the client's names and conditions, and what type of insurance they had.  Uff.

It was noisy and fast-paced and buzzy, unlike my current dentist's office, which is sleepy and quiet.  But of course there's a reason his office is quiet and this one is busy.  And so I am switching in spite of the fact I hate this office, because the dentist assured me it was no problem to do dental work without tipping me upside down.  And this has come to mean more to me than anything else in this world.  I may become one of those people who has to take Ativan just to get my teeth cleaned.


*

Work starts in earnest on Tuesday, which is a very late start this year, about which I am grateful in spite of the fact that the Ministry has decided to punish us by adding 10 minutes a day to our work day.  It's worth it.  I would like to believe this year will be less painful than last, but it is unlikely.  Bill 11 looms over us, new battles, new assaults on professional autonomy.  I continue to regret allowing myself to get sucked into helping with union representation.  


*




6 comments:

Brown said...

I've missed you...hope the dizzies get better!

mischief said...

Thank you! I am doing "vestibular rehabilitation" which sounds like a drug recovery thing, but in fact involves doing weird head maneuvers to evoke dizziness on purpose… so that my brain wil (allegedly) eventually learn it doesn't need to be dizzy in those positions. We'll see how it works.

I missed you too. And I am happy to see you have been writing again.

Brown said...

I've heard of the treatment...definitely sounds counter intuitive, but I suppose many things in life make no sense. My dad saved my life once when I was 7...I had been eating ginnups (lychee fruit family), which have a pulp-covered seed that is gelatinous and slippery, and just large enough to get lodged in young boy's throat.

His spidey-sense must have kicked in, because immediately after I began choking and striving for air, my dad busted into the room, snatched me up by my ankles and shook me until the little innocuous seed popped right out. I remember being incredibly dizzy and disoriented. I've never liked being upside down since....but of course, I still eat ginnups.

mischief said...

That is a crazy story! Good thing Dad was in tune with his inner spider. How interesting that he chose to hang you upside down and shake instead of using the old standard, the Heimlich. Whatever works, though, I guess.

The vestibular rehabilitation does seem counter intuitive. My first instinct has been to walk around like a granny all fragile-like, trying not to move my head or do any movements that might trigger dizziness. The therapy seems to help, though, as strange as it is. The hard part is not getting so comfortable with my range of motion that I do something that actually triggers another injury (like going to the dentist). It's a fine balance, apparently. I have a lot to learn about how to manage this situation.

Why have I never ever heard of ginnups?

J.B. Chicoine said...

In case you track visits to your blog and notice that someone was clicking away, trying to catch up on your life since last November, that was me! The little bits you share are as engaging as ever! :) And I do hope your dizziness thing improves.

mischief said...

Thanks lady. Great to see you here -- been a long time! I don't track visits so I'm glad you left a note. :) Hope things are good with you. Looks like you are having good success with the books!