Polishing a Lost Smile

     I went to the dentist for my biannual cleaning.  The last time I had been, my overly friendly hygienist noticed my protruding belly and asked me a barrage of questions about my six month gestated baby.  "What are you having?" "Is this your first?" "Have you thought about names?"  The excitement of others about my pregnancy always had the ability to rub off on me and I smiled a proud and ecstatic smile.  A smile I have since lost.  She told me stories of her first pregnancy and shared musings of when.  When you have your baby...

     The days leading up to this dental appointment, were filled with an awful dread that someone, most likely my jolly and friendly hygienist, would ask me about the baby.  When I mentioned this dread to friends, most of them would reassure me.  "Well," they'd protest, "they probably won't remember.  I mean, they see a lot of people."  I tried to adopt their order of thinking.  Regardless, I still felt uncomfortable and tentative when I walked into the office.

     I signed in and sat down in the waiting room as usual.  I could feel my nervousness begin to take root.  Trying to calm myself, I took out a book and pretended to read.  I had tried to read this particular book on infant loss several times.  I had even gotten a few chapters in, however, if someone asked me to tell them what the pages of the book explained, all I could tell them was that it was a book on infant loss.  I could recall no further details.  I stared at the words on the page and even flipped pages to avoid another waiting room patient from decoding my facade.  Finally my name was called.   I could feel my dread grow as I was led into the patient room.
     "How are you?" the hygienist blurted out from behind me as I gingerly hung my purse and coat on the provided hook.  I didn't quite know how to respond.  In the months after my daughter died I have been very careful when responding to the How are you? question.  I am careful to not say things like "I'm fine." or "well" or even "okay,"  because none of those things are true.  I don't want to recite some seemingly prerecorded response in the interest of saving everyone from  an uncomfortable moment.  But, I was suddenly dumbfounded.  My usual "I'm breathing" response may raise some suspicion from the hygienist and her overly perky assistant who otherwise, according to my friends, didn't remember that I was ever pregnant.
     "Okay," I responded tentatively.  I felt slightly sickened by my generic and dishonest reply.  My hygienist glared at me as if she knew I were not telling her the truth.  She knew I was a fraud.  I was sure that she remembered the x-rays I was supposed to have received at my last visit were postponed due to my pregnancy.  I could feel my stomach contract and the heat of the blood rushing to my ears.  I knew she was going to ask it. The dreaded question about the baby.
     "So...what did you have? A boy or a girl?" She asked.  She stood there glaring at me with an open mouth grin on her face much like a child would appear when she were about to receive a lollipop.  There is was, the question.  It seemed to linger in the air like a dissonant out of tune chord and in that moment it felt as if time were standing still.
     "A girl, she died." I spit out the words as quickly as I could.  It was almost as if the words had come from someone else's mouth.  Perhaps it was my sub conscience attempt to state a fact unattached from emotion.  When in reality this fact was one that stabbed me like a twisting knife that reached into the core of my being.
     I could tell she felt ambushed by this news.  She and her assistant exchanged uncomfortable and horrified glances before she cautiously responded with "I'm sorry."
     "It's okay,"  I countered.  The response from me was automatic as if the hygienist had pulled the I'm sorry lever on a conversation machine and the words its okay printed out of my mouth.  Its okay?  What?  Really, its not okay.  I tried to rationalize that perhaps I was letting her know that it was okay that she had asked the question.  After all, how could she have known.  This must have been it, because, of course, it was not okay that my daughter had died.
     "Oh...why don't you just go ahead and take a seat.  We'll, uh, we'll get you going on those x-rays."  She frantically blurted out.  She seemed to feel an urgency to move away from the awkward moment that had just formed. "Just sit tight..." and with that she left the room.
     I pushed back the tears I could feel forming in the ducts of my eyes and the bridge of my nose as I slowly sat on the dental procedure char.   The once perky assistant hurried to prepare all the films for the x-rays.  "I really like your earrings," she chattered.  "I have never seen earrings like that before."  I was wearing the same earrings I had been wearing the day my daughter died, other than for the surgeries I received, I had not removed those earrings since that day and even a few days prior.  They are copper brushed spirals that incorporate the post as the end of the spiral.  I had almost forgotten that they were even there.  Normally I would respond with a polite "thank you" and even offer explanation as to where she could get herself a pair.  But, on that day, I knew she was merely looking for things to talk about that didn't involve my dead child.  I silently nodded and then obeyed as she recited commands as to how I should open or bite the x-ray films.
     When the hygienist returned to the room, she laid out all her instruments, lowered the back of the chair and examined my teeth and gums.  "Looks good in there, seems like you've been doing a good job with the brushing and flossing."  This must be something she recites to most of her patients.  I certainly was not doing a good job with anything.  In fact, on several occasions, I had forgotten to brush or floss my teeth at all.  The latter may surprise many of my close friends and especially past roommates as they would be aware of my odd affinity for flossing.  However, now, none of that seems necessary.   As she cleaned my teeth she would inform me that there was some bleeding or plaque build up or even pocketing (though I am not sure what pocketing means).  Every time she would inform me of such things I would furrow my brow in confusion.  Didn't she know I didn't care?  In fact, being at the dentist's office at all seemed superfluous to begin with.  Why did the appearance of my teeth matter at all now? Now that I had lost my smile.
     After the appointment ended I went through the motions of scheduling my next cleaning.  In six months my child will still be dead and I may still not have found my smile.  But in six months, I will return to the dentist's office and get my teeth cleaned and polished, smile or not.