I have Dentophobia. I don’t need an official diagnosis to know it’s true. The mere idea of going to the dentist makes me feel like crumpling into ashes, and I am not alone.

I am not afraid of the needles (I worry I won’t be numb enough when they start to drill, so I welcome the needles). I hate having my mouth open for long periods of time. I hate the sounds, the smells, having a virtual stranger glaring into my mouth. I hate when they wear glasses and I can see the reflection of my mouth in the lenses. I hate the chair, the music, the spitting, the bib, the x-rays where you have to bite down on the cardboard thingy. I hate how expensive it is. I hate being asked questions while my mouth is held open by something that looks like something I’ve seen at the OB/Gyn.

I fear being told my mouth is as bad as Sodom and Gomorrah and deserves to be destroyed. The dentist will spare me if she can find five good teeth. Alas, she can’t…run, top left incisor, run.

Today I confront this fear head-on. I am going to the dentist. Several months ago I broke a back molar whilst eating a slice of hubby’s homemade bread. All those years of my ice cube addiction finally caught up to me. Oddly, it didn’t hurt to break the tooth and it never gave me any problems, so I managed to forget it happened until the past few days when it decided to rekindle my memory. Ouch. Double-ouch. Triple-dog-ouch. Quadruple-torturous-ouch.

An ouch so ouchy it made me want to go to the dentist. Because of my pregnancy, they told me they can’t do any x-rays and they prefer not to do any work until the second trimester, but they will see how they can help me until then. I can’t imagine living the next 6.5 weeks exclusively chewing on the right side of my mouth and avoiding foods that are chilled or heated. That will leave me eating slices of Wonder Bread and bananas—not the best way to grow a baby.

I know I should have had the tooth taken care of months ago, before I became riddled with pain. Fear is powerful, but pain is more powerful. Now I have put myself in the position of not only compromising my health and well-being, but the health and well-being of the tiny baby inside me.

My phobia? Cured.

One of our favorite stories is Make Way for Ducklings, by Robert McCloskey.

Mr. and Mrs. Mallard were looking for a place to live. But every time Mr. Mallard saw what looked like a nice place, Mrs. Mallard said it was no good. There were sure to be foxes in the woods or turtles in the water, and she was not going to raise a family where there might be foxes or turtles. So they flew on and on.

I thought we found a place where foxes didn’t live in the woods and turtles didn’t live in the water. We’ve been circling places for months now, flapping down to test the waters occasionally. If I don’t find a place to land soon, my wings might fall off. They are starting to ache.

The answer was no. Apparently, the sellers received an offer on Saturday for the full asking price, no contingencies. If this were true, why did their agent fail to mention this when we had our showing on Sunday? Why didn’t their agent mention this when they received our signed offer yesterday morning? Why didn’t their agent mention this when our agent called him repeatedly yesterday to ask where we were? Why did we find out at 8:15pm last night that supposedly a far superior offer was made on Saturday?

Is real estate another of those professions (like prison snitch) that attracts people with iffy ethics and morals? I know it is their job to find the best deal for their client, but would it kill them to be honest? If they had an offer since Saturday which made our offer look unattractive (not the full asking price) then why not save us some grief? Our agent thinks the better offer came in after ours, actually. I understand the seller wanting to take the best offer—I have no issue with that. Why string us along for a good portion of Sunday (and say you will think about our offer) and nearly all of Monday if you have a fantastic can’t-be-turned-down-offer on Saturday?

We are not supposed to fall in love with places and things for a reason. Material things cannot be counted on to bring happiness, yet why did it make me so happy to envision our family moving in to this particular house? Why do I allow myself to get caught up in the dream of it all?

So they flew on and on.