“Finley, let’s brush your teeth at the sink like a big girl!” I scooped Finley up and wrapped her long legs around my torso. 

“YEAH!” She exclaimed excitedly.

“I’m coming too.” Said Matt, following close behind me on the stairs. 

We stood her at the sink and helped her hold on with her left hand. I stood behind her offering the stability that she needs. 

“YAY!” Finley squealed as we turned on the water, immediately thrusting her hands into the sink to splash in the water while loosing her balance. 

“Whoa, girl! Hold on with one hand. Safety first.” I smiled, knowing that this seemingly mundane act of tooth brushing and being able to play with water was bringing her so much joy. Finley reminds us daily that the simple things in life should never be taken for granted, they are to be cherished and enjoyed. 

Matt prepared the tooth brush and handed it to me.

“Say AAHH!” 

“AAAAHHHH!” 

Because I was standing behind Finley to help her brush her teeth I could see directly down into her mouth. A different angle to normal as we usually brush her teeth in her bed. 

“Oh my gracious! What is that?! Matt, she has a bottom adult tooth that looks like it is halfway grown, coming in behind her baby teeth.

My chest heaved and I took a deep breath. Panic was creeping in.

“I need a minute.” I said, passing Finley to Matt.

I walked down the hallway into Finley’s room and started picking up. Taking slow deep breaths, I attempted to calm myself down. I have been terrified of the process of Finley’s baby teeth coming out, knowing it would be our responsibility to get them out safely. I often check to see if any are loose, but have not felt any movement so far. Now there was an adult tooth. I felt the panic rising and felt silly because of it. I tried to think my way out…’This is ridiculous,’ I thought to myself. ‘Why am I reacting like this?’ 

My body had responded to the sight of the tooth before my brain could even register what it was. I felt foolish and shame. ‘It will be fine. It will be fine.’ I told myself. 

Matt carried Finley into her bedroom and laid her on the bed. 

“Let me see your tooth again, Fin.” I masked the panic that I felt with a sing-song voice, attempting to be brave and face this seemingly trivial fear. I pried her smile open and peered in, trying to see just how far the adult tooth had grown and checking to see if the tooth in front was loose. No movement whatsoever. 

My heart began to race. 

“I need a minute.” I said for the second time in the span of five minutes, my heart pounding harder and harder. 

I walked back down the hall to our bedroom, closed the door and sat on our chocolate brown Craigslist chair in the corner. I started to cry. And cry. And cry. 

I was having intense flashbacks to one and a half years ago when I took Finley to the dentist to get her tongue-tie cut. A tongue tie is basically when you have too much skin under the tongue and it hinders talking and eating. The procedure was only supposed to take two seconds. The dentist had explained that anesthesia is not used because the process is so quick. He helps kids with extra challenges like Finley all the time so I had no reason to question him. 

He instructed me to lay on the dentist chair with Finley laying on top of me so I could hold her hands from going in her mouth. The dentist’s head light was blinding both of us as he peered into Finley’s mouth. Then she started to scream.

She screamed and screamed and screamed. Two seconds felt like an eternity and I knew something was wrong. Attempting to calm both myself and Finley down, I prayed under my breath and whispered into Finley’s ear. 

“Mama, is right here. I got you. You are doing great. It will be over soon.”

What felt an eternity of screaming and thrashing was probably 30 seconds. Finally it was over and I felt the motorized chair sitting us up. Finley would not be consoled. Poor girl was traumatized and had no words to help her. My heart ached for our sweet girl who had just been smiling and laughing and now may never see a dentist the same again.

“I have never had that happen before.” The dentist said loudly over Finley’s screams. “Her mouth was so tight, her tongue was incredibly difficult to cut. It is done now, and it looks great.” Finley screamed on. “Bring her back in two weeks for a follow up.

Apart of Finley’s diagnosis is “spasticity”. In laymen’s terms this means her muscles can feel and be extremely tight, making it difficult for her to move her body the way it needs to, or the way she wants it to. Finley uses her mouth to compensate when she is working hard to do something, which is almost everything. This means her mouth muscles are tight all the time. Face and tongue stretches are needed daily to keep her mouth even slightly relaxed. So it made immediate sense to me when he said “her tongue was tight.” 

I carried my screaming child out of the office, made an appointment over her screams and took her out to our van. She screamed on. My body was shaking with adrenaline, my heart was aching for my child. She would not be comforted by all the usual things that bring her joy. She just screamed for 30 minutes of the hour drive home, exhausted and worn out.

All of this flooded my body when I saw her adult tooth. It was like I was back in the dentist chair. I could hear Finley’s screams in my ears and feel them in my body. My mind reeled, ‘the baby tooth will have to be pulled and she will have to endure a shot in the mouth, or worse we will have to pay a stupid amount of money for her to receive anesthesia to get a tooth pulled, but that would be better than putting her through another terrible dentist experience. What if all of her teeth are like this?! Maybe her mouth is so tight that her baby teeth can’t wiggle out. Nothing is straight forward with Cerebral Palsy. Why can’t teeth be something that are easy? What will her adult teeth look like?!’ 

Matt came in the bedroom. 

“What is wrong with me.” I asked quietly. 

I shared with him all of the thoughts I had been having and told him about the overwhelming remembrance of the tongue tie operation. 

“Heather, this is PTSD from the tongue tie. You were traumatized by that experience.” 

PTSD? I wanted to fight accepting those words. To me, those were words for courageous veterans serving land and liberty, or words for victims of abuse or dear souls that have been enslaved in sex trafficking, not for a dentist chair and a screaming child. My situation seemed trivial compared to the heart breaking, soul wrenching stories of brave souls that have walked through more pain than anyone should ever endure.

Despite what my head was telling me, my gut was validated when Matt said those words and I knew he was right. I’m not sure if I had ever experienced anything like that before. I have had panic attacks but this was different, this was bigger somehow. I was grateful for the validation and permission Matt had given me by simply recognizing what was happening and being present. He held my hands, he prayed over me for the millionth time over the last six years and I cried.

The next few days following were a challenge. Finley’s shark tooth (I discovered that is the term given to adult teeth growing behind baby teeth) was haunting me. I would be making dinner or driving or doing therapy with Finley or folding laundry or talking with Macrae and the image of the shark tooth would flash in my mind, in my body, taking my breath away and leaving my insides shaking. My tears were just beneath the surface. I often would go to our room to cry and pray or ask Matt to pray for me. 

It has been a couple of weeks and I have no answers. The shark tooth is still there and Finley’s baby tooth still won’t budge. Dental appointments are difficult to come by due to Covid, and I’m not sure when that will change. Despite not having answers, I am calmer now when I see her adult tooth. I am grateful for a husband who lets me cry when I need to. I am grateful for a couple close friends who I can text and simply say, “please pray. I’m struggling with PTSD.” I am grateful for family and friends who will listen to yet another crazy story in the life of the Sweetmans. I am grateful for a coach who is gently leading me towards self compassion, I am grateful for Finley, who daily reminds us to not take the simple things for granted. Enjoy them. Cherish them.

Despite the struggle, today is a gift to be treasured, not out of a sense of smiling through the pain, or faking it until we make it, but to face pain with vulnerability, honesty and gratitude with those close to us. And in that vein, we like to say in our home, “today is a good day to have a good day.”

• #cerebral palsy
• PTSD