I went in to see the doctor this morning. For you know…what’s ailing me. Actually, it was the P.A. (Physicians Assistant) that I saw. That was all right though; she had a wonderful, bedside manner and seemed to know her stuff. She told me that it was not so much the TMJ Joint Disorder that may be causing me problems, as much as the infection that I appear to have from last month’s root planing. She prescribed me antibiotics and anti-inflammatory meds, and told me that those two should fix the one problem, and the anti-inflammatory meds would help remedy the other, along with rest of my jaw. No chewing ‘chewy’ foods, she said. There go Milk Duds and my fave, chicken breast & avocado sandwiches. Drat!
I thought the conversation was pretty much over once she diagnosed the problem, but apparently I appeared more emotional than I should over just the pain I was experiencing, and we started talking about how my antidepressants were working. I admitted not very well, but attributed that mainly to the fact that I’d long ago grown weary of dealing with dental problems, procedures to fix them, and now the problems I was having that accompanied those procedures. How much can one individual endure? I mean, really! So my nerves were shot, and I wasn’t a bit surprised why the ‘happy pills’ weren’t making me happy anymore.
This discussion led to one about getting some more counseling, which led to another of my explaining how and why I could no longer make it to counseling, to her sitting back in her chair, folding her arms in front of her chest, and telling me I was a caged animal by the way I described my life, or nonexistent one. Way to not pull any punches, doc! I mean, she literally said it that way. She asked if I was abused…if my husband hit me. I told her absolutely not. If anything he doted upon me. He was a good man: No cheating, no physical abuse, had great work ethic, no addictions or really bad habits, and I couldn’t count how many times in the day he would tell me he loved me or called me his “Sexy Baby”. He just didn’t seem to want me to have any kind of a life beyond him. It was like he wanted to keep me to himself. She uttered the word Kewpie Doll once or twice in the following sentences, and then told me she thought he should’ve sat in on the discussion, because perhaps he wasn’t aware how seriously this form of isolation was affecting me. I told her that he knows. He just doesn’t want to know. She told me that wasn’t her idea of love. Before I left I asked her if she might have an antibiotic for that, but didn’t get an answer, more a look.
So I guess there are no antibiotics strong enough to cure the infection in my heart and mind caused by a controlling husband and prolonged periods of isolation. It appears only an extraction of the infected source will cure the problem. But what if you want to save it? What if you don’t want a bare spot where it once had been? Huh, what then?
Why does love have to be so difficult? Why do we meet, fall in love, and then decide that the object of our affection is imperfect and needs to change to suit us better? Weren’t they good enough to attract our attention, hold it captive, and make us fall in love with them in the first place? If they were so ill suited for us, how could that happen? Most important, who are we, and what right do we have to pass that judgment and expect them to change?
I ask myself these questions constantly, and am no closer to finding the answers to why I’m so imperfect now that change in myself and lifestyle are required to suffice him, than I did when I first started asking them. I wish there were an antibiotic to cure it. Or at the least an inoculation to prevent it altogether.