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.
It was the less cheery of a pair, both constructed in the unhappy aftermath of Younger Son breaking his arm twice. The second skateboard fall required surgery and meant he started high school with a heavy, itchy cast — not an auspicious beginning in the least.
The Dark Quilt quilt (above) used a lot of the same fabrics but bleached to represent the joyless aftermath of trauma. This time the house is constructed of deep indigo/ghost white prints to represent X-rays.
The Ghost quilt was in the dresser where I thought it would be. Exultation! But, oh my — how many unfinished projects I had to paw through to find it! I laid piece after piece down on the floor like a colorful cloth sidewalk to nowhere. Or maybe like a path leading straight into a big cloth, working along with 
By 4 am, I had careened from concerns about children emptying this stuffed house to my central creative dilemma — finishing work. I don’t want advice or sympathy right now, but it helps to admit this (again) and witness it, maybe with a more balanced lens.
Besides shoe polish, stationery, my pocketbook, travel pillows, the basket for rogue socks, and a pile of shirts to be ironed, there were many bins of fabric in my front closet. How did they get there? Was there a party I didn’t know about?
Just kidding! How else to keep several compositions going without running to the basement every other minute?
I will be making another pouch. A different one, of course, because all my cloth work is one of a kind. A weird pressure arises because the one my cousin bought came out really nice and they don’t all — ya know?
Also, what’s on your fridge?
One of the reasons I didn’t know I had ADD until my thirties is because I functioned well as a student. I could organize myself around deadlines and wanted to excel and did. Except for freshman year of college, once I left home there were always jobs, too — providing more structure.
The free-for-all business of raising two “highly active” boys was another matter altogether. When the younger son was tested for ADD, we checked all the same boxes.
Next Wednesday (five days from now) is the first of my “Last Wednesday” Etsy store updates. It’s an experiment in promotion and setting deadlines. All of a sudden, I have a half dozen quilts to finish!
Now if only I could impose a deadline for a first draft. Or rather (since I’ve done so multiple times), if only I could impose one that worked.