I
was eating a sandwich a while back when, without warning, I suddenly felt a
small pebble in my mouth – only it wasn’t a pebble. Upon closer inspection I
saw that it was a piece of my molar. I felt around the affected tooth with my
tongue and discovered a small crater. I’m one of those women who belong to the petrified-of-the-dentist-No-
I’m-NOT-going group. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mind going to the dentist
for my biannual teeth cleaning. I’m okay with everything from plaque removal to
teeth polishing. I’ve even learned to tolerate – well, put up with – the occasional
filling, as long as the dentist has strict instructions about Novocain and my
need for it. But this tooth breaking-off episode clearly did not fall into any
of those categories.
I quickly contacted my dentist and
got an appointment for later that day. I showed up at his office with my molar
chip safely stored in a sandwich bag, hoping he could somehow just glue it back
into place and send me happily on my way. He laughed and said, “No, that
wouldn’t work” and in the same breath informed me that I would need a crown. I
immediately asked if I could have at least four shots of Novocain. I’d never
ventured into the deep woods of crowns and bridges before and wasn’t convinced
I wanted to go there. I’ve certainly known people who had that kind of dental
work but never imagined that I would be one of them. I guess it’s the fear of
the unknown and the fear that the Novocain won’t work!
I don’t think I ever had Novocain
as a child. I just remember the ice cream. Yes, after every dental visit,
children were awarded a little slip of paper that entitled them to an ice cream
cone. Can you imagine in today’s day and age being given a sugary treat every
time you went to the dentist?!
Yes, times have certainly changed,
and so have I. I wasn’t always afraid of things. In fact, when I was young, I
learned to ride my bicycle without using my hands and loved skating in my shoes
on icy sidewalks rather than walking like everyone else. I even learned to ski.
When I had children of my own, I wasn’t fearful of their antics either. They
climbed and jumped like children love to do, and I was never nervous about it –
unlike my grandmother, who always worried that I would get hurt and was forever
reminding me to be careful.
My brother and I used to spend two
weeks every summer in New York City with my grandparents from the time I was a
little girl. Those were wonderful times! My grandmother used to take us grocery
shopping with her, and even that was an adventure. I still remember her pulling
her shopping cart along the sidewalk to the Pathmark grocery store and then on
to the butcher shop with the cow brains and tongues in the window display. We
loved to go the park, and when on the swings, we’d ask her to push us as high
as she could. “Higher Migher!!” we would laugh and yell. She was originally
from England, and I can still hear her British accent and wonderful laughter.
My grandmother took us on the subway, too. That was such fun, except while
waiting for the train to arrive, she often reminded me to stay behind the
yellow line for fear that I would fall onto the train tracks below. Once, she
took us on a boat ride around the Hudson River. How thrilling it was to feel
the strong breeze and the river spray. The trip was only slightly dampened by
the words of my grandmother who kept worrying that I would fall into the water.
I’ll never worry like that when I’m a grandmother! I remember telling myself.
Then something really strange
happened the minute I became a grandmother. Someone must have sprinkled pixie
dust over me when I was sleeping. Overnight, I turned into my grandmother. I
suddenly got nervous with my grandchildren over the smallest things they did. I
couldn’t watch them go down the steps. They didn’t just walk down, they flew
down, and I had to turn my head away. I heard a voice say, “Please hold onto
the banister” and couldn’t believe it was mine. I held onto my grandchildren’s
hands for dear life when we crossed the street, though I remember that I didn’t
do that when my own children were young.
When my oldest grandson wants to do
something daring and frightening to me, I plead with him not to do it. I try to
explain to him that worrying about grandchildren is something bubbies do. He
doesn’t understand. Oh, how well I understand his lack of understanding. I
picture myself as a little girl, younger than he is now, waving to my
grandmother from the highest perch on the monkey bars. That little girl up
there is smiling and happy, unaware that she will one day turn into the happy but
concerned grandmother on the ground who is smiling and waving back.
Zahava Hochberg
enjoys spending time with her children and grandchildren. She can be reached at zrspeech@gmail.com
