When the Appointment Undid Me

I did not expect to cry in the dentist’s chair.

I went in because of an abscess. Because something hurt. Because I was trying, finally, to take care of myself after months of putting everyone else first.

My work schedule is that I work six twelve hour shifts in a row, then I am off for eight days. I schedule my appointments on those off days, usually the first day or the last (as I have every Wednesday off). That is when I try to catch up on everything I have postponed while working, both at the hospital and at home.

Caregiving has a way of narrowing your focus. You move from task to task. Appointment to appointment. Medication lists. Follow ups. You show up. You manage. You keep going. Somewhere along the way, your own needs start to feel optional. Not because you do not matter, but because there is only so much energy to go around.

So this appointment felt like a small act of reclaiming myself. A responsible choice. A step toward caring for me.

The dentist was kind. Truly kind. She explained everything gently. The staff was warm and patient. There was no judgment in the room.

And still, the news landed hard.

Most of my teeth were not healthy. The recommendation was to remove them and move toward dentures.

I listened. I nodded. I held it together.

And when she stepped out, something inside me broke open.

I called my husband. My safe place. And I cried.

Not because of teeth. Or dentures. Or the logistics of what comes next.

I cried because it felt like the end of something. Because it stirred a quiet shame I did not know I was carrying. Because I had finally tried to care for myself, and it felt like the effort was for nothing. Like I had arrived too late to save what mattered.

Care for others often means you are not caring for yourself. And sometimes, when you finally turn toward yourself, the outcome does not feel like healing. It feels like loss.

This past season has been heavy. My husband’s stroke changed everything. This week alone included cardiology appointments where we learned there may be a cardiac component to what caused it. An abnormal stress test. The possibility of a blockage. More testing ahead. More waiting.

I work my shifts, and then I come home and keep working. Not out of resentment. Out of love. Out of responsibility. Out of necessity.

Our middle son cares for my husband while I am at work. When I am off, he steps back some and rests. And I am grateful for him. Truly.

But sometimes, quietly, I wonder when my rest is coming.

Who takes care of me.

This appointment was supposed to be simple. Instead, it became the moment where everything I had been holding finally showed itself.

I am still sitting with it. The grief. The questions. The reminder that doing your best does not always protect you from hard outcomes.

But I am reminding myself of this.

Needing dentures does not mean I failed.
Crying does not mean I am weak.
Trying to care for myself was not wasted, even if the result was not what I hoped for.

Sometimes self care does not look like improvement. Sometimes it looks like honesty. Like letting yourself mourn what you did not get to keep. Like allowing someone you love to hold you when you cannot hold yourself together.

This is where I am right now. Not fixed. Not resolved. Just human. Still showing up. Still learning that care is not a guarantee, but it is still worth offering, especially to ourselves.

With Love from Mabank,
Brandy