Quirks, How Could One Have Any More?

There are so many little details of one's life that has to be accounted for when you move 3,000 miles. Perhaps the changes might have been of little consequence if we'd ended up in a bedroom community outside the city, replacing one suburban life for another. However, with life so dramatically altered, it is the little things that make this transition all the more startling. The search for doctors in a city teeming with medical professionals has been almost as arduous as the recent rigors of trying to get our son into a private school--I did preface by saying 'almost'. I have asked others for references, finding that sometimes those who are friends may not be the best judge of doctors. Or rather, we may have different criterias for what we look for in our medical provider. Being intensely phobic of needles, doctor's offices, dentists, and just general health facilities, my needs, or requirements, are, I'm discovering, quite different from those who are much more sanguine about going to a doctor's office.

My recent search for a dentist has been a trial of patience (on the dentist's part) and a trial of all of my worst phobias for me. I am a bad dental patient. There is no other way to describe the acute panic that I have to fight while in that chair. My dental experiences weren't any more horrific than anyone else's, despite the three and a half years of braces. But the helplessness and vulnerability of lying on those reclining chairs is enough for me to self prescribe an extra dose of Xanax before any visit. My fears were so bad that for years I'd had laughing gas just to have my teeth cleaned. Thankfully, my old dentist, whom I adored, had convinced me that I didn't need to be so doped up to have the hygienist clean my teeth. He was a very patient and kind man.

Trying to find his replacement, a tall order for anyone, but excruciating for me, has been unsuccessful, thus far. My first visit with a young dentist, who appeared overly aggressive in the things he wanted to do, had me in such a panic that I was near tears when I left his office. I know, I know, I'm a mess. It's amazing my husband doesn't just laugh out loud whenever he receives those calls of distress. Thankfully, I'd met and fell in love with my new orthodontist, to replace the one I'd left behind. His calm, gentle bedside manner had me confident my old orthodontist had made the right choice for me. So, now I'm on going to interview the two other dentists referred by my new orthodontist, given my phobic predilection.

It is these small, or in my case, not so small details of remaking one's life that poses challenges that you hadn't foreseen when you were pining for this exact thing to happen. Even me on the worst day of neuroses wouldn't have foreseen the patience required to find the right doctors.
So, I have an appointment with another dentist, who will charge me a small fortune for me to interview him, to insure he wouldn't scare me half to death in his zeal to make sure I don't end up with a full set of dentures by the age of 50. It is such challenges that makes me almost nostalgic for my old doctors. I did say almost, right?