Ruth at Reception

I walk through the front doors of the dental surgeon's office. I'm here on account of my receding gum line. I recall, months earlier, the dentist poking around in my mouth at a routine checkup, frowning slightly behind her mask. "Looks like you've been clenching your teeth. Have you been stressed lately?" Reclined in the chair with a bright light in my eyes, I think of everything that has happened this year. 2020. She makes a note on my chart and refers me to a specialist.

I put the appointment off for months - being a mild hypochondriac, anxious about medical procedures, I imagine the worst. A grafting gone wrong. Surprise tongue cancer. The dentist posing probing questions while his drill hits bone. So, alone in my apartment during our city's second lockdown, I let the calls from the dental office go to voicemail, as I ruminate about COVID and politics and unpaid bills, jaw clenched. At night I dream of my teeth crumbling and falling out. Eventually, one type of anxiety overpowers another, and I call the dentist back. Now, on a snowy day in late November, I brave the elements and drive to my doom.

As I walk up to the front desk, a dental assistant wearing a mask steps in front of me. She points to a small sanitizer station between us. She waits as I rub my hands together, then aims a temperature gun at my forehead. Killshot. She leads me up to the front desk. She sits down and starts typing up my information, head turned away. Her ancient computer struggles to keep up. "Sorry it's taking so long," she mumbles without looking up.

"Oh, no worries!" I'm trying to cover my dentist-anxiety with cheerfulness. "I'm just happy to get out of my apartment for once." She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I swallow. She gives me a consent form to sign. I initial my approval beside several chilling statements, such as "I acknowledge that COVID-19 may be transmitted through blood spray." She takes the form back and points to the waiting room.

The room is plain and cold, with country music playing a little too loudly. There is one other person waiting - an elderly man in an elegant sweater and slacks, sitting up straight, hands folded in his small lap. I can feel him looking at me as I walk by. I acknowledge him with a half-hearted nod, finding a seat across the room. I feel compelled to start up a conversation with this man, clearly intelligent and perhaps lonely and definitely of an age where burying your face in a smartphone isn't the default option. But my shyness and nervousness take over, and I pull out my phone, ignoring him. I feel relief and regret when he gets called back into the dentist's office.

Soon, it's my turn. My heart leaps when my name is called. The frosty dental assistant leads me into a back room, seats me in the chair.

I soon realize that this procedure is not going to live up to the horror show I created in my mind. The dentist looks at my gums for all of two minutes, unconcerned, and tells me to keep an eye on them. He explains that I can opt for a preventative treatment if I want, and that it will cost me $1500. I think of my freshly decimated income, my unpaid bills. I pretend to mull it over and tell him I'll wait on it, for now.

He leads me from behind the frosted glass, to the front desk. He deposits me in front of the receptionist - a round-faced woman with glasses, her red hair feathered with grey. She smiles at me, bright hazel eyes shining atop a pastel pink mask. She asks a couple questions, then hands me the invoice to look over. The ten minute appointment was $250. I feel my stomach tense. I look up at her.

She is watching me, curious. Her eyes are soft, her posture dignified. Her voice, warm, almost tender, reaches out to me: "Do you have insurance?"

I begin explaining - I was a student, but I'm not anymore. For the time being. I don't know if my insurance is still active. It should be. But maybe not? She listens patiently. I glance at her name tag as I ramble. Ruth. She lightly touches the desk between us.

"Why don't you give me the information and I'll give them a call right now? That way we can sort it out before you leave and you don't have to worry about it."

I look down, feeling like a burden on this sweet woman, feeling socially awkward and frazzled and out of practice talking to strangers. "Oh! You know. That's okay. I can just pay for it now and figure it out later. On my own."

Ruth catches my eye. In a beat of stillness, her gaze holds mine, unwavering. "It will only take a minute. Why don't you go sit down and I'll see what I can do."

The solidity of her kindness, her gentle defiance in the face of my bashfulness, throws me off guard. I carry my coat in my arms and sit down in the waiting room. For the first time, I notice lush tropical plants in the corner of the waiting room, palm fronds and lilies and birds of paradise, reaching up to kiss the snowy window. I hear water trickling from a fountain hidden among the leaves. I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I hear Ruth on the phone behind me, speaking in firm, polite tones to the person on the other end. Not taking no for an answer. Bargaining on my behalf, being put on hold. Being redirected. I feel guilty that this woman, this stranger, is putting in so much effort for me. It would be so easy for her to let me off the hook, to release me back into the waters of stress and chaos.

The phone receiver clicks back into place. She peeks over the desk at me, triumphant.

"Okay, darling! You're all set."

I stand and come back to the desk. She looks up at me, leans in. "It's all taken care of. You're covered." Her face is radiant, open, smiling. No trace of irritation, no haughty "Hey, look what I did for you, kid", not even a hint of pride at her dogged perseverance, her skillful slaying of the insurance dragon.

Instead, in her gaze is something that makes me smile, makes my eyes crinkle and soften as they meet hers. In her gaze is a joyful acknowledgement of our shared humanity, a glimmer of presence, a tendril that reaches out to me and says: You deserve to be cared for. You matter. I don't want you to worry. It's all going to be okay. We're in this together.

Ruth rises to her feet and slides a final piece of paper across the desk to me, her hands bridging the gap between us. The balance is set to zero.

"Thank you." I say to her. And I really mean it.

She beams, so sweetly. "You're welcome."