I cried in the dentist’s chair. I realized I was going to, and I let myself cry—for my tooth, which he was trying to pull, but also for my husband, who loved me, and died. For my older son estimated to be “in the superior range” of intelligence, and laid low by seizures and Parkinsons. For my younger son, beloved, noble, bright—who just lost his partner of twenty years. For me, knowing there was no point loving someone who could not love me back. I watched the dentist’s face—so composed as he tried to wrench out that eyetooth. I’m cold! I’m so cold! I need a blanket! and the nurse —whose hand I’d reached for and clenched hard —patted my hand and tucked some kind of rustle-y blanket under my chin, and then I wept for the beauty of the situation: how lovely and fine human beings are to arrive at this, where long schooling devoted to helping other human beings means this. I looked at the dark dark eyes of the dentist and grinned at him. Maybe just my eyes grinned but I told him, “I finally get dentists. You like danger, but you like it to be tidy. Freaks.” He grinned broadly, his eyes merry, which was actually all I could see of his masked face. I recommend nitrous oxide, not just for people like me who have kicked dentists in the past and refused to open my mouth when under mild sedation, but for the disinhibition you may experience. You know what you’re doing, or if like me, what you are saying, and you don’t care. Surrendering to pleasure I understand very well, and to laughter, but freely surrendering to sorrow? Who knew?