I arrive early, per usual. Two of us wear masks. Three of us chat about how we seem to all have appointments at roughly the same time with the same periodontist. I’m here for crown and tooth extraction and an implant.

They’ve double booked the 1:00 slot. They call the other patient in first.

The remaining woman and I chat the way women who’ve just met sometimes do — with a casual intimacy. We both have osteoporosis and a history of failed implants. She likes Waze. I do not. She’s a gym rat, doesn’t trust meds. I tend to rely on meds but agreed the science on fosomax is iffy. You get the idea.

But let’s go back a little.

Fifteen or so years ago, my dentist prescribed the anti-anxiety med diazepam for me. He got it. All these years later, I had one left. I was relying on it hard.

You know how when you’re anxious you make big and little preparations — TO BE READY?

I’d already had my stern talk with Deedee. How she couldn’t come with me. What her reward would be. When I come back, we’ll rewatch that satisfying opening to The Hit Man and then take a bubble bath.

I filled a glass with water. Set the pill next to it and went back to some random barbecuing show that I’d put on for Finn during my absence. The plan was to take the pill exactly one half hour before my appointment and then walk over.

Damn dog licked it off the counter! I could not believe it. To the usual line up of worries (failure of Novocain, a cracking, difficult-to-remove tooth, swallowing a chip), add the worry about coming home to a dead dog.

He’s a fast metabolizer, my brother had said after a second chocolate incident early on. No throwing up. No diarrhea. Just guilt.

He looked guilty, Finn, when I stood dumbfounded in front of the counter where my pill was supposed to be.

I had earlier given him half of one of my statins by mistake (don’t ask. Just don’t ask) and then correctly, half of one of his allergy pills. Five milligrams of diazepam in the mix?

But here’s the thing: with the office running so late I’m spared the worry about the pill’s effect wearing off before they finally call me to the inner sanctum.

Here’s a more important thing. Having already had one procedure with this doctor, I know he’s good. He has a crackerjack team. They’re ace communicators. They work FAST. The day’s snafu is asking me to trust them. And I do. It’s not even a stretch.

Two more things: sharing the story about the pill made the assistants laugh and got us talking about dogs, always a good thing.

And this (don’t judge me): I called up an angel and one appeared. She is Black. Called Deandra. Don’t you have little Black boys to protect? I mewled. She hushed me and stood by for the full hour.

UPDATE, next day

Omnipresent dark cloud gone! So much relief. I’m feeling the kind of relief that tells me anxiety was tagging along everywhere and all the time, whether I knew it or not.

Now get this — I will be goddamned if I didn’t come home and find the anti-anxiety pill sitting next to my glass of water. A little orange rebuke. Or better yet, a prankster in the annals of developing trust. How did it happen? Was it under the glass somehow? Befuddling for sure. Perhaps I need to add this to my Losing things and finding them post.

Never mind! Today will be ravioli-making day! I ordered cutters and have 00 flour. I have ricotta and even, truffle oil (just for a few. I don’t like it all that much). Can’t wait.