My son once asked me to take him to the dentist. He complained of severe pain so I made an appointment and collected him from the psychiatric hospital after completing the necessary paperwork. Off we went.
He insisted on going into the dentist’s clinic alone, so I remained in the waiting room and prayed that he would be okay and that there would not be any incidents. My dentist knew David’s history and had treated him in the past. I paged through a magazine but doubt whether I absorbed much. Forty five minutes later, David came out and as we headed towards my car, he said: “I was nervous at first when te dentist lifted my lip and I felt the sharp point of a needle in my gum. I get so much of that stuff in the hospital and I feel more like a pincushion than a person. I got irritated and was about to slap the dentist’s hand away, when a wonderful tingly numbness crept from my lip up the side of my face, moving outwards like soothing fingers. I never feel like that after a shot in the hospital, Mom. Then, the dude drilled with the gusto of a man putting up shelves, and you know what? … I didn’t feel a thing.”
During my son’s description, this is what was going through my mind; now this doesn’t sound like a psychiatric patient, does it?