I Hate Clowns, Bats and DENTISTS, I'm Not a Hypochondriac Drama Queen!

Alright I have shared with you my phobia list in past chapters. By order of ranking, for those scoring at home, number one is clowns. Number two is bats. Number 3, with a bullet, is Dentists. My sister Chris has labeled me a hypochondriac. My wife has labeled me a "drama queen." I feel that these descriptions are slanderous generalities. I am merely convinced that I have "monsters inside me" and a trip to the dentist may be my last gasping moments as I shuffle from this Mortal Toil. That sounds normal to me.

In the idyllic village of Mokena there was one dentist in town while I was growing up. His name was Dr. Killian, a moniker that fit him to a T. I remember my first dentist trip like it happened a half an hour ago. I have a big mouth. We all know that. Structurally my mouth is very small. As Dr. Killian entered the office with his neatly parted hair and white smock, I couldn't help but notice he had huge hands! I am talking hands like those plastic "Incredible Hulk" slip ons kids wear. The only difference was Dr. Killian's hands were white not green, and they didn't slip off, exposing wee tiny hands underneath.

For those of you who love Dr. Killian, I salute you. It is possible that my perceptions were slightly altered. From the moment he hovered over my pint sized choppers, I was convinced that he was a Russian operative there to extract information from me about my candy and sugar intake, by any means necessary. He had a sterile, neatly organized set of shiny tools on a silver tray, ranging from simple mirrors and picks to the "jaws of death." He could extract my tooth or remove the crushed roof from a mangled Pinto, with the tools splayed out before me.

As he checked and stretched my mouth there were simple instructions for me to follow. They were "open" and "bite down." These are easy to follow dog-like commands, but I was a psychological wreck and obviously being monitored by the Kremlin. At one point he asked me to "open" and I misunderstood it for "bite down." His commands became louder and more concise as I was tortured. By inflicting pain upon his Hulky finger he was going to exact his revenge on American freedom, via my mouth. I felt as though Sir Laurence Olivia was standing over me and I was Dustin Hoffman in the "Marathon Man."

This experience actually bothered me so much that I didn't go back to the dentist until I was 18. I had no problem with bad teeth. It wasn't slowing Great Britain or Ireland down and I thought the banjo playing kid in "Deliverance" was kinda cute. I did take care of my crooked teeth and was thrilled when my trip resulted in only 3 cavities. I do not remember the name of the second Mokena dentist but I found his bedside manner much more pleasant. I don't mean pleasant like Carol Brady checking on Marcia's broken nose. It was more of a pleasant executioner, making sure my straps were comfortable before my lethal injection proceeded.

My phobia is so bad that I need gas for a cleaning. It makes for a more enjoyable cleaning and doesn't violate my sobriety. I talked to my mentor before going and I follow prescription medication instructions carefully. I do not abuse them. I can also say that the internal terror I experience at the dentist office doesn't trigger me or put me much in the mood for a party. All people are different. Check with your recovery mentor or doctor before taking any medication if you are in recovery.

I have had a toothache for about 2 weeks. I was scheduled to perform tonight in Elk Grove Village at the Korner House. It was a competition and I was looking forward to going. The pain in my tooth decided that being funny tonight wasn't a possibility. I made an emergency appointment with my dentist, Dr. Shindollar, and his faithful sidekick Tammy. They are familiar with my phobic condition and they have a custom fit nose inhaler for my visits. As I entered the office I took my last few deep breaths of the sweet fresh air as if they might be my last. I don't know the statistics but I am convinced there are hundreds, if not millions, of deaths that occur during simple dental exams yearly, worldwide. "THEY" just don't talk about it.

As they cajoled me into the chair with their scripted "this won't hurt a bit" ploy. I saw through their mind games. This wasn't my first dental rodeo. We started with a simple x-ray of my tooth. It seems so innocuous in its' simplicity. In reality, I am fairly certain they placed an 8"x10" plate into my mouth. I was stoic and only slightly whiny. The color would return to my knuckles after I was done gripping the chair. I said my I love you's to my wife, family, friends, and thanked God for giving me an interesting life. I then waited for the x-ray results.

It was a gum abscess that would not require surgery or extraction, just a scraping and cleaning of the gums, and removal of the infected area. There was hope I would see my loved ones again. The gas fairy hooked me up and told me to breathe normally. I must have misunderstood her because I was sucking in gas like I was huffing paint behind a local hardware store. I was amazed at my lungs capacity. As I took each lung filling dose of my phobic relief, I relaxed more and more. I wish dentists would paint Pink Floyd-like murals on the ceilings of their offices. It would make the trip all the more enjoyable for everyone.

I heard no angels but as my mood was becoming more dental friendly, my phone rang. It was my wife calling. Her ring tone is Etta James' "At Last." I could see Etta belting out the blues classic and pictured my wife wondering if she had been widowed. It took 3 shots of Novocaine before the doc could clean up my mouth. The first two didn't work. He asked me if I needed a third. I said "sure." Imagine a dentist phobic, hypochondriac, drama queen requesting another needle in the mouth! At that point he could have built a birdhouse in my mouth and I would have been perfectly happy with the work.

Well as you can see I made it through the ordeal. If you suffer from this condition I am here for you. I didn't care for the uncontrollable drool I dripped on my shirt as I left. I felt like Leo DiCaprio in "Benny and Joon." I am grateful for the gas that dentists offer to guys like me. The drugs have worn off and I should be able to whine my way into my wife babying me for the evening. I will return again to the dentist in a few days for a follow up. As long as he doesn't enter the room in clown make up and a Batman costume, I think I will make it through like the real man I am. As long as he still has the gas, I've got the guts!

Mama I Love You, Sister I Love You, and You Love Me! It's All Crystal Clear!

It's a funny thing how events look so different when you look back in the rear view mirror of your life. The distortions and distances of relationships, both real and imagined, become clearer and focused. On the side mirror of my car it reads "objects may be closer than they appear." Life truly is like that, but sometimes those distances and distortions have to be trudged through before we can look at them and gain their proper perspective.

Squeaky, Ange and I went down to my sister's house for my family's Christmas in the quaint town of Dwight. My mother, brother-in-law, nephew, niece and her husband spent one of the nicest, most joyful holidays together I can remember in a long time. It started with a Bear victory and a variety of tasty snacks and treats. It ended with me relating this story of how different things look in that rear view mirror now.

Growing up in Mokena it was just me, my mom and my sister in our tiny apartment on Wolf Road. Mom worked a lot, sometimes more than one job to support us. We were not poor as there was food on the table and clothes on our backs but Christmas gifts often included underwear, socks, belts, sweaters and other types of clothing. There were toys too. I remember opening the boxes by the corner and if I saw there were clothes or socks inside I would quickly chuck the box to the side in search of G.I. Joe, Big Jim with Kung-Fu action or Vertibird, my all time favorite toy. When I had tossed the boxes to the side my Mom would make me retrieve them and hold up sweaters and pants or even worse, try them on to see if they fit. Oh how I hated trying clothes on knowing that I had left G.I. Joe behind with my sister's Barbie.

Mom went through some tough relationships after the divorce from my father. My sister and I lived through the same pain she did. My mom was private and hardworking and handled her job as mother and father for a good part of my young life. When she would get home from work we would have a simple dinner and she would crash on the couch, exhausted from the hard day she had just put in. There were factory jobs, paint store jobs, Amway and real estate just to name a few.

My sister and I weren't close coming up. I really don't know why. We shared a room in our tiny apartment and the whole floor of a house when Mom got remarried when I was 6. Even though our beds were a few feet apart or our rooms next to each others we didn't talk life. It seemed like we had a mile in between us. We rarely shared our feelings about those challenges that our youth seemed to throw at us left, right and center.

I was active in sports and I wanted my Mom to go to every event. I would run home chattering like a record on 78 rpms until she would shoo me away because of my nonstop jabbering. I wanted my sister to dote on me like I was her sweet baby brother. Those things didn't happen THE WAY I WANTED THEM TO and I resented it. My friends had two parents doing things. I had one Mom trying to be everything all the time. My sister was navigating her way through life's difficulties, as I was, and I didn't understand the realities of daily living.

In my teens I did everything I could to avoid feelings and realities. I would morph into different "me's" hoping to reach my mom or escape the confusion of our complicated family dynamic. When I began to drink I drank "AT" people. It was THEIR fault! I didn't DESERVE this! I had a million reasons to use and a lot of painful material to draw from. As I got older the distances became chasms of misunderstanding between me and these two extraordinary women.

When I got into recovery I regurgitated my life story seeking confirmation that I did indeed have the worst young life a boy had ever encountered in the history of mankind. They asked me a few simple questions. "Did any of these people who cause you so much pain pour booze down your throat?" Well no. "If you won the award for having the worst life ever what would you do about your life starting tomorrow?" There is nothing an addict hates more than logical, sensible responses to our desperately manipulating bullshit!

Today everything became crystal clear to me. My mom sacrificed her life physically, mentally and emotionally to provide for our simple existence. She would have been everywhere for my sister and I if she wasn't going to or coming home from work. She had her own personal dramas to deal with but always made sure that my sister and I had food, clothes and shelter. I do remember she would say "I love you" every day as I left for school.

There was nothing but laughter and love in that quaint house in Dwight today. My mom is healthy and my sister is an amazing mother and sister. We ate, took pictures, told stories and reminisced about days gone by. The past is gone but it can be put in perspective now. When a seed is sitting in a pile of shit it doesn't realize that after it makes it through that shit, only sunshine and beauty await. I saw only sunshine and beauty today. It was a perfect family get together.

For all of you single parents, thanks for what you sacrifice for your kids. They will understand some day. For all you addicts, all the excuses are gone. You use because you are an addict. You will quit when you stop running. For any of you sitting like a seed in a pile of life shit, be confident that when you get through it there is a lot of sunshine and beauty awaiting you.