On Loneliness, Slammed Doors, And Remembering To Breathe
By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor
I went to the dentist last Thursday. It was a reschedule of a reschedule—that particularly 2020 phenomenon we’ve all become well-versed in. Originally I was supposed to go in April, but nothing was happening in April. Then it was pushed to June, but no employment meant no dental insurance. And so finally, in late October, I found myself in a chair at my dentist’s office, happy as a clam to be there since only patients are allowed and that meant I was alone, without my children, for the first time in who knows how long.
The hygienist tapped at my teeth, casually making conversation (why they make conversation while their hands are in your mouth is beyond me, but there we were), when she paused on one of my back molars. Tapped again.
“Hmmm, I’m going to ask the dentist to take a look at this one. There’s a groove there,” she said.
“Like a cavity?” I asked, my mouth momentarily empty of her hands. “I’ve never had a cavity in my life.” This is true, although it’s certainly not due to my sugarless diet and rigorous dental hygiene. Luck of the genetic draw I suppose—some people get washboard abs; I get cavity-free teeth.
When the dentist came in, though, he confirmed that it wasn’t a cavity. Instead, he asked, “any chance you grind your teeth in your sleep?” It’s a question right up there with any query posed while someone else’s hands are in your mouth—one that should appear obviously impossible to answer. Well, good doctor, it’s hard to say since, you know, I’m asleep when I’m asleep.
However, I do, in fact, know that I grind my teeth in my sleep because my husband has told me that I do. Before you feel sorry for him, having to share a bed with a teeth grinder, you should know that he falls asleep every single night within 30 seconds and—to borrow Christmas Vacation parlance—can sleep through a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerine plant. So while he has enough evidence to confirm the habit, he’s assuredly not losing sleep over it. Although, if we want to talk sleep-losing habits, I can tell you all about his thunderous snoring that eventually led to a sleep apnea diagnosis when his cardiologist casually asked, “do you snore in your sleep?” and Jon started to say no but I was sitting right there and practically shouted, “OH MY GOD, YES HE DOES.”
Side note: I think this is one of the reasons studies show that married people live longer than single people. It’s because we have spouses who can confirm that we do things like grind our teeth, snore, and stop breathing in our sleep. Nothing is secret in marriage.
So I told the dentist that yes, I do grind my teeth in my sleep and he said that I’d been grinding so hard lately (stay focused, reader—we’re talking about teeth) I’d actually worn three holes in my molars that needed to be filled. I felt my jaw clench reflexively at his words and immediately recognized the familiarity of the movement. My teeth have been ground together perpetually since … March? Suddenly those holes seemed a lot less surprising.
“I blame 2020,” I joked.
The dentist explained that when I came back for the fillings they’d also fit me for a nightguard, a sexy little mouthpiece I’ll wear at night that should pair beautifully with my husband’s CPAP machine. So yes, we’re basically the same two kids who fell in love back in 2003.
“I can’t stop you from grinding your teeth,” the dentist said as he rolled back the chair. “But I can give you a buffer so you don’t do any more damage.”
***
The door slams so hard it knocks a picture off the wall. Again. My daughter’s anger—always her most accessible emotion—has been roiling just below the surface for weeks. Yelling, storming off, and yes, slamming doors, are all commonplace occurrences. I sigh, count to 10, and then walk down the hall. Knock.
“Els? Can we talk?” Silence meets me on the other side, but since we had the genius parental foresight to install non-locking door knobs on our kids’ bedrooms, I enter anyway. My daughter is curled up on her bunk, her body barely visible amid myriad stuffed animals and blankets. I climb the ladder and curve my body around her, the way we used to sleep every single night when she was a baby who had to always be in my space, breathing my air, to stay calm.
She pulls her body away from mine. Not far, but the space between us communicates just as loudly as her silence. My best guess is the silent treatment—together with the anger outbursts—are her response to all that’s been lost this year. And I get it, I really do. There is no part of her life or routine that’s gone untouched, and I identify viscerally with the rage coursing through her small body, with the need to control something, anything, even if that’s just the distance she keeps from me.
I think about my crying bouts in the shower—where I can be unseen and unheard and the hot water erases the evidence so no one is the wiser. I think about my clenched jaw and the choked feeling in my throat; the unbearable weight of everything I don’t say, won’t feel, can’t show. I think about the cost—and not just the dental bill. It’s a price I don’t want my daughter to pay.
I take a breath and begin speaking to her back.
“Ellie, baby, I know you’re upset. And that’s okay. You can be mad and sad and tired and frustrated. But I need you to talk to me about it. Holding it in doesn’t make it go away. It will find its way out of you anyway; it always does.”
Through slammed doors.
Shouted words.
Holes in your molars.
***
“Tell me how you’ve been coping,” my doctor said as she entered the exam room for my annual physical. It was the week after my dentist appointment, and yes I would like a gold star on my adulting chart for making all my general-upkeep-and-wellbeing appointments, pandemic or no.
“Coping?” I parroted.
“Coping,” she affirmed. “With everything that’s gone on this year, I want to know how you’re helping yourself process it.”
Processing it? That’s shelved for later. I’m white-knuckling through one day at a time currently, doc.
“Mostly with drinking and memes,” I quipped, because my favorite feelings pivot is humor. “Oh, and I’ve ground three holes in my molars in my sleep.”
She laughed because she claims to enjoy my sarcasm, but followed up because she’s a good doctor.
“Are you talking to anyone?” she pressed. “You know, about how you feel and how you’re handling things? Are you making time to connect with your friends? To really talk to Jon?”
I shrugged, keeping my emotional barrier firmly intact.
“Some texting. The occasional FaceTime. And yeah, Jon and I are fine. But surely you know how it is, right? I mean, how much are you connecting with people right now?” I asked, knowing she’s also a wife and mother.
She laughed again. “Touche.” Then she tilted her head and held my gaze. “But try.”
***
Ellie continues to hold her body rigid, separate from mine. I reach across the space tentatively and place my hand on her back. She doesn’t shrug me off. I gently pat, the way I have for six years, right between her shoulder blades. She says nothing, but her shoulders drop and the stiffness in her posture relaxes incrementally. Slowly—so slowly her progress goes nearly unnoticed—she closes the gap between us. Eventually, she rolls over to face me and tucks her head underneath my chin. I kiss the top of her head.
“I feel lonely,” she whispers.
“Me too,” I whisper back.
“It makes me sad,” she says.
“I know baby, and I’m sorry. I feel sad, too.” And we lie there in silence, her face buried in my collarbone and my hand patting her back, as the light shifts and the shadows lengthen across her floor.
***
On the first Tuesday in December, I stood in a hospital gown that opened to the front. The mammography technician had me lean forward and grip the corner of the machine while she used her palms—always only their palms, never their fingers, as if that’s too personal a touch—to position my right breast on the plastic.
“Don’t move and don’t breathe,” she commanded, right before she pressed the button. I knew it was coming; this was my third mammogram. I started them when I was 35 thanks to a family medical history full of red flags, and my very first appointment took forever because I kept moving at the wrong time. I knew that I needed to hold still and that my chest couldn’t move. I knew, and I still found myself unprepared. I forgot to get a deep breath and while the machine whirred, my lungs were screaming at me.
“Relax and breathe,” the nurse said softly. My shoulders slumped in relief. I hadn’t realized the machine had stopped, and I said as much to the nurse. She smiled.
“No one does,” she told me with a shrug as she positioned my left breast—again, using only her palms. “I think it’s because we’re already tense or anxious; everyone stays frozen and unbreathing until I say something.” She moved away to switch the machine on again.
“But that’s what I’m here for,” she said. “To get the right pictures for your doctor. And to make sure you remember to keep breathing.”
***
That evening Jon gets home from work and leans against the counter as I finish making dinner. I tell him about Ellie’s outburst and our shared confession of loneliness. He nods.
“What do you need tonight, Love?” he asks. He asks this every night, and my answer usually alternates between “nothing” and “I don’t know.” But tonight, I pause.
“There’s a show on Netflix I was thinking about starting,” I say, my words coming out slowly at first and then tumbling more quickly. “It’s light and silly and romantic and you’d probably hate it … but would you maybe want to watch it with me after the kids are in bed? I can show you the trailer so you know what you’re signing up for.”
Jon raises his eyebrows skeptically. In our entire relationship, we’ve agreed on maybe half a dozen television shows, tops. He prefers his dark, violent, and dystopian. I prefer … not those things. But he studies my face, his expression shifting, and I wonder what he reads there. He smiles.
“Sure, Love. Whatever you want.”
That night, we watch two episodes of Dash & Lily in bed, my head resting on Jon’s chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I feel my muscles relax tucked against his warmth as we watch two teenagers fall in love at Christmastime in a New York City that’s still crowded, with parties and meals in restaurants and quick hugs hello with friends. It’s like watching something from another world, but as I watch them smile and tease and confess it’s also a reminder of what used to be and a promise of what will come back again. I consciously unclench my jaw.
Before we go to sleep, Jon slips out of bed to grab a glass of water. He’s coming back into the room before I realize I forgot to take my Benadryl and melatonin—the magic (doctor-approved) combination of meds that ensures I sleep at all these days. I sigh and prepare to kick off the covers and pad to the kitchen, when Jon pauses next to my side of the bed and drops four pills on my nightstand. He holds out the glass of water.
I smile. Thank him. Take my meds and pop in my nightguard. Jon climbs into bed and pulls me gently to him, my back to his front, the same way we’ve fallen asleep for 17 years.
“Thanks for helping me feel less lonely tonight,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he replies.
I press a kiss to his forearm curled around my chest and close my eyes. For the first time in months, I fall asleep first.
Words and photo by Jennifer Batchelor.