Dear Dr. ---,
After having a bone graft in the front of my mouth this morning, I felt inspired to write you this letter, to let you know that I am thinking of you. When I walked in the door and was greeted by your smiling secretary, it's true that I was not terribly excited to be there. But I smiled. Brave-faced, grinning toothlessly, I was going to face this day with fortitude and the Buddhist precepts of non-reaction I so admire.*
Your dental technician froze my mouth and your dental assistant industriously sterilized tools. She asked me if I needed to tell her anything, and when I waited for her to turn around and look at me while I responded (she never did) I began to feel less like a punchy PhD student with a personality and life-story all my own, and more like a piece of dental equipment in need of tuning up. She said, "I'm listening!" while scrubbing the countertop. To her vigorous shoulders I tried to explain my medical history.
Now, the star of the show, Dr. ---, you came in the door. I didn't smile at you, it's true. I was nervous. I had recurring images of the scalpel slicing my gum tissue apart like Dexter does to his victim's cheeks right before he saws their bodies into roast-sized pieces and throws them in the ocean. You asked me how I was and I think I responded, "wondrous." At the time, I believed that you would note the sarcasm and chuckle to yourself, thinking that those who use humor to relieve tension are often the most ill at ease. Uncomfortable. Scared, even. Now that I know you better, however, it is clear to me that you lack even the most basic level of human empathy.
There were more needles. You pricked in a carefree way, most unlike the dental technician, who had been gentle and slow. I winced. Your dental assistant asked you about your lawn. Had you gotten around to it? No, came your reply, you had to go look at some tables, and then get groceries, and had not had time for the lawn. Ah, said your assistant. Mine really needs some attention. Oh yeah? Yeah. It's a mess. How's your mother? Oh she's good. You know she's deaf in one ear. She had her hearing aid turned way up the other day and I scared her half to death when I turned the radio on, she was like, ---- (the dental assistant must have done a shocking rendition of her mother's half-dead face because you stopped working on my mouth to look up and chortle). How are the kids? Oh, good. You know. I'm taking Bobby golfing. Nine holes? No, he can do eighteen these days. That's great. He's a trooper. And it was at this point that I felt the pressure of the scalpel and the scraping of skin away from bone. There was no pain. Only a feeling of stress and discomfort as my heart started to race. As your especially inane conversation began to pick up again, I stopped you.
Excuse me? I said in a small, slurred voice.
Yes?
Could you please not gossip while you work on me, it's making me very nervous. I'm feeling really anxious.
At this point, you could have said something like, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you were feeling so unhappy. Our conversation can definitely wait twenty minutes while we finish here. And I would have felt a little better, and probably would have focused more on my yogic breathing, and probably would not have started crying or hyperventilating. But instead, you, Dr. ----, chose to respond in this manner:
We're not gossiping. We do this all day every day, so we're going to just continue talking, thank you very much.
Your tone of voice was incredibly rude and haughty; there was no room for me in this room, apparently. I am just a mouth with teeth in it and I should shut up. As you continued to saw away at my jawbone and gums, I began to cry, because I was helpless.
You stopped working. You said, should I just close you up and we can do this another day then? You commanded me to close my mouth around some gauze, and then you got up and left the room. To give me time to "cool off."
The dental assistant asked me if I was okay. She lectured me about breathing. She told me to try harder and then to "try differently." You came back into the room and asked me if I was ready to "work together on this."
When I replied in the affirmative, you asked your assistant about her weekend. She was planning on going to a fortieth birthday party, perhaps. Perhaps? Like, you don't know whether or not you will go, or you don't know if you are actually invited (chuckle). Oh, I don't know if I am going to go. I've got a running schedule and I don't know if I can be bothered. You know, I like to run around MacKenzie. Lot's of trees. Oh yeah? Pine trees. Really? Yeah, it's lovely. Nice. ...And your brother? How's he? He's great. Tried to Skype him yesterday. Did it work? Not bad. Little grainy. Oh yeah, it can be like that.
As you are suturing my gumline, all I can think is how self-absorbed you are. No longer am I worried about my surgery. Congratulations, my mind is now on other things. Like, who can't stop the most boring conversation in the world for twenty minutes in order to make the life of one patient a little bit better? I am thinking about how little respect you have for me. I am thinking about how incredibly pointed all your questions are, as if you now have something invested in keeping the conversation going. And I am thinking about your dental assistant, and how she keeps inviting you to ask questions, and how she responds in kind. Both of you are assholes. That is what I am thinking. I start breathing rapidly. The remains of my tears have turned into that hyperventilating breathing thing that occurs at the end of a good cry.
You push the chair back, stand up. As you leave the room again, Dr. ----, you say to me "You're being awfully high-maintenance."
If I was anyone other than a slender young woman, would that comment have left your lips? Let me respond, Dr. ----, by saying that you are misogynistic and your ego is so big it leaves no room for kindness or empathy. You are disrespectful because you make too much money doing a job that requires, apparently, so little effort that having a completely unrelated conversation while doing it is actually a necessity. You are mean, Dr. ----. If I am being perfectly honest here, you hurt my feelings by not respecting me, and while you were in a position of total power (if you don't shut-up your mouth will be fucked) you expect me to comply and treat me like nothing.
I am so angry at you, Dr. ----. I am sitting here, waiting for the freezing to wear off so I can pop a Tylenol 3, and I am seething with rage that you should be so awful. If I was a man, would you have acted thus? If I was even a middle-aged woman? I'm willing to guess not. I am shocked and amazed and angry.
My greatest wish, at the moment, is that this letter reaches you in a dream, or a nightmare.
Sincerely,
Carmen Faye
* see the Tibetan Book of Thoroughbred Training.
