A couple weeks ago, I saw my dentist for a routine cleaning and check-up. Drove over to his office, x-rayed , scraped ‘n’ scrubbed, pearly off-whites looked healthy enough, no drilling, no filling, in and out in a half hour.
Last week, we took Ben to his routine dental cleaning and check-up. He, too, checked out nicely, mouth healthy, no work needed, in and out – of the hospital, in four hours.
Here’s how he looked right after the check-up:
“Routine” tasks are rarely routine for Ben, and getting his teeth cleaned and examined is simply an impossibility any way but this. Believe us – if there were a better way, an easier way, especially for him, we’d gladly, gleefully try it.
This way means a trip to a Cleveland Clinic operating room and full anesthesia. It is the only way his mouth will cooperate.
But getting him conked out – whew doggies. Whether or not he’s given some sort of sedative to mellow him out beforehand, it doesn’t matter when it’s time for the mask.
The doc suggested that maybe letting him stay in the wheelchair this time would make Ben less anxious than getting on the bed. Sure, let’s give it a try, why not?
They’d heeded, as they always do, my advice to have a bunch of big guys present – one for each limb and torso, one to maneuver the mask, with me holding his head from above and keeping my face close to his, to offer as much comfort as possible.
Ever roped a bull? Sorry, silly question, I know everyone’s roped a bull.
But if you need a memory refresher, just come along next time Ben goes under.
Picture a 6’2” big, strong man fighting with all he’s got to keep a hissing mask spewing nasty gas from being put over his nose and mouth. Oh, and now we know — it’s no better in a wheelchair than on a table.
Ben writhed, flailed, pushed, kicked, squirmed, grabbed, all simultaneously and with lightning speed. The mask came apart and had to be hastily reassembled. Ben twisted his body as he slipped further and further floor-ward. He whipped his head back and forth to avoid the mask, and held his breath as much as he could. I kept saying, my nose almost touching his, “OK Ben, almost over. You’re OK,” to absolutely no avail.
Finally, taking longer than it does for patients not fighting the effects, and seeming to take even longer than that, the gas took over. Ben was out cold — flat on his back on the operating room floor.
And I wasn’t the only one sweating.
“Wow, you warned us, but that was something,” said one of the doctors.
“You can head to the waiting area now,” the nurse said gently. “We’ll get him onto the table.”
Ninety minutes later, Karen, the nurse and I stood on either side of his bed, waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. All the reports were good. No cavities, mouth healthy. And his ear-cleaning – Ben’s ENT doc came in to help us kill two birds – went off without a hitch.
At last year’s check-up, they found that a back tooth of Ben’s had gone bad, and had broken up. Most of it was long gone by then. They cleaned out the rest.
Ben had never shown any signs of mouth pain. That absolutely blew my mind.
Ben’s relationship with pain is as atypical as any other part of him driven by severe autism.
I remember Ben once glancing at his shoulder, flicking something off, and calmly going back to what he was doing. Then I saw a huge welt, and realized he’d been stung by a bee or a wasp or some such winged monster. Ben showed no sign of pain.
I don’t think he doesn’t feel it, any less than we would.
But I do think it reflects a lifetime of not being able to effectively communicate pain. His crying and wailing as a baby and young child told us he was heartbreakingly miserable, and it’s likely some of his aggressive behaviors as he grew older came from a similar place – misery but without a way to say how, and to get relief.
Not having learned how to get help for his pain, he stopped trying. Not a conscious decision, but a natural outcome. It makes me sick.
So, mouth pain from such an ordeal passes unnoticed, to us. I cringe imagining what it was like for him.
But this time, all was well. Now we were just waiting for him to come to.
“The first thing he’s going to say is, Go to McDonald’s,” we told the nurse. She chuckled.
But we were wrong. As he began to stir, eyelids beginning to flicker open, his first groggy words were:
“Go to Luna Bakery.”
Ben was back.
~~~
A few more (and a bit more fun) moments from the weekend…
Ben’s a creative guy with his food. This one you might call a Filet-O’Fish-O’Double-O’Cheeseburger (plain, hold any and all sauces), which, immediately after construction, is deconstructed for actual eating.
After the chow comes the juice box, no straw needed (beyond punching the hole), sucked dry and tossed aside like a crinkled beer can, macho-style.
We did a round-trip to Pittsburgh to see friends over the weekend. Two hours there, 35 minutes for lunch before Ben insisted on getting back in the car for the two hours back and a short post-lunch nap in the back seat.
And my meds at our usual Saturday night post-visit apothecary.
