Debbie the Dentist

My Dad wanted me to a dentist.  I’m not a medical type person but I went along with the whole dentist idea because it seemed to make him so happy and proud. I actually gave him the idea. I won first place at the 6^th grade science fair for my experiment, “Does toothpaste really wear down the enamel of your teeth?” I collected baby teeth from my siblings and whoever I could get them from. My plan was to brush these itty-bitty teeth three times a day with various toothpastes and attempt to measure how much each brand wore down the enamel. And if any did, which brand wore them down the most. I think I used a ruler. One tooth per toothpaste. Crest, Colgate, Pepsodent, Ultrabright, which was supposed to give your mouth sex appeal, and my personal my favorite, Close-Up. Close-up was first gel toothpaste. It was cool. It was red. Toothpaste wasn't supposed to be red. It was way too fun to be good for you.

I figured Close-Up should probably lose. It would make sense.

I did some brushing, but mostly I compiled data. I “proved” that Close up wore down tooth enamel more than any of the others. If toothpaste really wore down tooth enamel that fast, none of us would have teeth. But that’s beside the point. I fabricated the results, spent the left-over time on an elaborately fancy display, and got 1^st place.

My Dad stood by my experiment with me and said “she’s going to be the dentist in the family” to anyone who would listen, because apparently every family should have one. After that, whenever anyone had a tooth problem, the response was, “ask your sister”. I rather liked the respect and attention. When I made the mistake of accurately diagnosing one of my sister’s cavities, it was over. It became common knowledge that I was the resident expert on teeth and all things teeth related. This was the dawn of the dentistry plan.  Debbie the dentist.  I started to believe it might be what I wanted. Deep down I knew it didn’t interest me at all, but I was pretty sure what I felt deep down should be left right there, deep down.

I got good at burying things.

The whole dentist thing went on for many years. Until it became something I should have done but didn’t. It hung out there as proof that I wasn’t and would never be a true success in life. I was the crazy one and when I came to my senses, I’d see that they were right.  Music, writing, art should only be regarded as a “side thing”. It should never be chosen as a career. It was something you do in your spare time or on the weekends.

Doing what you love to do just isn’t sensible. Following your dreams is for other people.  It was time to “get my act together”.   I couldn’t seem to do that, so I concluded……There’s something wrong with me.

For starters, I didn’t want to be a dentist. I couldn’t be a dentist.

I didn’t even graduate from high school

At Wheaton-Warrenville High School, I was sent to the guidance counselor when my grades started dropping. We discussed my plummeting GPA and the limitations I was creating for myself regarding college. The counselor asked me about my career path and where I saw myself fitting into the world.  Fitting in?  I never felt like I fit in and I couldn’t imagine that changing.  And frankly, I was pretty sure I’d be dead before I was 30 anyway.  Every square inch of her office was wallpapered with posters of mandalas and nature. The beauty of the pictures did nothing to make the quotes that were plastered all over the top any more believable.  They hung there like to do lists. 

“Be somebody nobody thought you could be”, “Where there’s a will there’s a way” “Don’t be your own worst enemy” “Nothing worth having comes easy” “A river cuts through rock not because of its power, but because of its persistence”. These messages promoted having faith and courage -things I wanted but could not begin to imagine having.

Panic began crawling up my throat as I read the titles on her bookshelves. “Family Therapy for Adolescent Behavior Problems” was not what I was looking for.  “Nurturing the Difficult Child” made my skin crawl.  Just the thought of all that healing and hugging was making me sick to my stomach.  Once I saw, “Your Body Belongs to You”

I checked out.

All I could think about was getting out of there in enough time to smoke a bowl in the parking lot with my friend Dave before I had to be in Math lab.  I could kinda talk to Dave.  He was not my boyfriend.  We were just inseparable pals.  He had a car with feathers and a roach clip hanging from the rearview mirror and Pink Floyd triangles all over the dash.  We’d drive around listening to music and getting high.  He was a little geeky strange, but I thought he was cool.  He knew every single word on the album 2112 by the band RUSH. Somehow, he pulled it together enough to graduate.  Try as I might I could not seem to rally myself to do the same thing.

I said, “fuck this I’m dropping out.”

I needed my parents’ permission, but there wasn’t much of a fight. They wanted to believe that dropping out of high school was the answer to all my problems just as much as I did.  We all walked in together. It took about 10 minutes to drop out.  I don’t think there was a word spoken between us as we drove home.  When we were caught up in the details of ending my high school career, it felt like we were fixing something.  I would get my GED and go to the College of Dupage before I transferred to University. We had decided it was the solution. I think we all knew it wasn’t. This was something I had no intention of doing. Not really. I just had to get the hell out of high school, and I’d worry about the rest later.  

Six years later, I got my GED in a psych ward. It was part of my treatment plan.

I may have felt hopeless, but it was very clear to my Dad what I needed to do. If I could get some version of a high school diploma and go to college, I’d be fine.  Then I could become a dentist. My doctor had arranged a meeting with my parents and so there we were sitting in Dr. Crane’s office on various pieces of tattered and tired tweed furniture designated for “talking”.  You can buy this kind of furniture worn out from too much drama at any Good Will for a few dollars.  If only Dr. Crane’s couches and chairs could talk?  Countless stories tucked away in the cushions were begging to be told.  I took a plastic bat to one of those chairs the day before, forcing myself to scream.  I thought possibly we were making some progress until my Dad stood up to leave, shook Dr. Crane’s hand, and said, “just get her back in school”. 

I sat there in my green hospital scrubs and fumbled with the plastic plant between our chairs. I hadn’t graduated to sweatpants and a T-shirt.  I had to start eating first. I ate a half grapefruit, dry white toast, and decaf coffee the day before but then threw it up in the shower.  The nurse tech assigned to me was all too familiar with this tactic and caught me. I really didn’t care if I ever got out of those scrubs anyway. And they think I’m going to school? Are they nuts? It seemed like a good idea to tear a leaf from the plastic plant between us and start chewing it.

No one noticed.

While I was in the psych ward, I studied for the GED, and they let me out on a pass to take the test. It was part of my treatment plan. I traveled to the testing site in a hospital bus. I must admit it was a relief to be taking some kind of action, any action, even if I knew it wasn’t going to fix me.

When I passed my GED test, my parents gave me a pewter serving plate they had engraved.

“Congratulations from Mom and Dad 1985”.

I still have it.

I moved my serving plate from apartment to apartment in the Chicagoland area.  Then I moved to Minnesota and it now resides on the plate shelf that wraps around my dining room in St. Paul.

Most people have a cap and gown and a framed diploma with an embossed foil seal. I have hospital scrubs and a plate.  I don’t know how they do it.  Graduate from things.  They should be proud.  Making it out of high school alive with a diploma in hand is more than some of us can do.