Accepting Impermanence

One of my molars lost its crown last week. Diagnosis: advanced decay in the tooth under the porcelain, I think due to a buggered root canal but no one at the dentist’s office was saying. Prognosis: not good. Resolution: yank the tooth and build a bridge between the flanking teeth. Since I’m all for keeping as many teeth for as long as I can, I’ve committed to the plan and the first step happened yesterday: the tooth was extracted.

No one likes dental work—if they do, they need more help than a dentist can give them. I have spent years getting over my childhood, but the last tooth I had pulled was wildly painful (and also the result of a root canal gone bad). It’s hard to get past it until you get past it, right? Fortunately, my recent adoption of the “be here now” and “worry is a waste of time” policies helped immensely in getting me through the wait time over the weekend. I hardly thought at all about what awaited on Monday, and when I did, I acknowledged the anxiety, then boxed it up and set it aside.

On Monday morning, however, Ter read my mind and handed me Your True Home—the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh. I sat with the book in my hands and asked myself: “What wisdom will help me today?” I then performed my thumbing ritual, eventually opening the book to page 361:

“Offering Flowers to the Buddah”

When I began this little ritual a few weeks back, I would often look at a heading and think, Seriously? I have learned to restrain judgement (and dismissal) until I’ve read the piece—as I did yesterday morning.

It was all about the importance of accepting impermanence. Nothing lasts forever. Everything changes. Accepting impermanence enables us to suffer less and enjoy life more. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but the nugget in this piece really helped me. I was upset at losing the tooth because I was afraid of how much it would hurt to have it pulled. Soooo … accept that the tooth has to go. Accept that it will be painful (pain is inevitable; suffering is optional), but this too shall pass. Breathe. And know that all will be well.

It took 45 minutes and four, count ʼem four, needles to numb me sufficiently for him to do the job. When I was finally frozen solid, I closed my eyes, felt a little pressure, heard a little scraping, thought, Good bye tooth, I’m letting you go—and it was done. No pain, no noise … and a lot of bloody gauze. Yikes, recovery is the brutal part.

It too shall pass.

Wasn't That Fun?

Yeeeeaaahh … not so much.

Actually, I don’t remember a whole lot about Tuesday’s date with the gum surgeon. I went to work in the morning, then home at noon to take the oral sedative and get comfy for the ordeal while the pills took effect. That was interesting. One minute I felt completely normal, the next I could hardly wobble my way down the hall. The creepy thing was that I had no immediate drowsiness. My motor skills simply seeped away, followed by a fair chunk of memory. Maybe that’s what being drunk is like? Except that I knew I wasn’t right; I just couldn’t do anything about it.

I do recall mowing my way through a pile of leaves to get to the car. Ter went around, but either I didn’t see them or I didn’t care. I do not recall the drive to the dentist’s office. Suddenly I was being steered through the lobby and into the waiting room, where I sat propped against Ter until someone noticed we had arrived. Poor Ter; my ferocious shark Finn. She told me later that the enraging point for her was when I looked up at her with tears in my eyes and said, “I don’t like this.” After that, action happened, little of which I remember. Just as well. Once the freezing took hold (I do remember the needles!), I dozed and the doctor cut, drilled and sewed. A two-hour procedure was over in half the time, and the next thing I knew, Ter was back and I had a frozen mouthful of dressing.

The welcoming committee had been convened to herald my return: 

 

Truly, there is no one I would rather have tend me than Ter. She is wonderful. She drove me home, got me to bed, updated my folks, made me soup, arranged my pill bottles, read over the post-surgery instructions, checked on me a dozen times during my three-hour nap, and stayed half-awake through much of the night just to be sure I was okay. She even watched a rerun of Dracula’s latest episode with me, to give us both a break.

So, the worst is over … I think. I have a bottle of Tylenol 3s that I doubt I will use, otherwise everything in the top photo is in use. Juggling three kinds of pills is a challenge; I have no idea how people on regular meds keep it all straight. I’m regularly rinsing with salt water, and twice a day with the mouthwash the dentist gave me because I can’t brush near the site. Soft foods only. Tepid liquids only. And everything is tainted with a plastic chaser courtesy of the dressing spread over half of my palate. Yuk. Worse, I'm supposed to talk less to give the site a fighting chance to heal!

I know, I know. Shut up and stop whining, Ru. Will do; I just had to get it off my chest. Once I get the plaster out of my mouth, I’ll be dancing. In the meantime, and here’s a happy aside, though the swelling in my face is minimal, it’s filled in my wrinkles!

Gum-ga-gum-gum

Gum surgery on Tuesday. Varying reports assure me that it won’t be pleasant, but I’ll live through it. The specialist prescribed an oral sedative to get us both through the 2 hour procedure – the bonus is that I liked her right away, which makes it easier to trust her while I’m tripping out on Triazolam – and I’m armed with antibiotics and painkillers for the post-game show, but once it’s done, I might be offline for a few days. I’m thinking about treating myself to that coveted bottle of dark spiced rum as a medicinal aid. 

As with most people, my pathological terror of dentists began in childhood, with a particularly traumatic episode occurring when I was twelve years old. I’ve never truly gotten over that incident, but given my desire to keep my own teeth for as long as possible and the benefit of dental insurance through work, I’ve been good about regular visits. I’ve even breezed through fillings and a few crowns, though I will die happy if I never need a third root canal. I’d rather have another kidney stone than another root canal. Before I arrived for my last cleaning appointment (on Halloween, of all things), my little voice hinted that something might be amiss and sure enough, the hygienist found some decay on the root of a molar that’s holding up one end of my bridge. It’s in an awkward spot, with too much gum in the way, hence the specialist. A consultation was booked for the following Tuesday and the long wait was on. 

Given my dental phobia, this sort of news could have flung me into the pit of despair and ruined my weekend. A few years ago, I would have let that happen. A few years ago, I was unaware of my power to control what once would have controlled me. 

My mind. 

Right away, I felt myself spiralling into the paralyzing hell of fear, dark memories, and anxiety of what will surely be a grisly procedure in the hands of a complete stranger. Ter, who had somehow managed to get a parking ticket the same day, was tempted to funk out with me, just when we were planning to have a magical Halloween weekend! Yep, it was bleak at our place for a few hours. Then we decided to put Tuesday aside and focus on the immediate weekend – to be present in each moment, to find joy, and to have the weekend we’d planned. Our strategy worked. We had a marvellous Halloween experience, the weekend was great, and my consultation went swimmingly ... except that gum work really is required, of course. 

I’ve learned, though it’s not yet second nature, that worry is a waste of energy. Prepare, yes. Worry, no. There’s absolutely no point in foreseeing the worst. It’s unproductive and interferes with one’s potential for joy in the moment. Besides, the worst may not happen, and if it doesn’t, how disappointing to have put all that effort into ... nothing. 

If the worst does happen, I’ll deal with it at the time. I’m not saying the gumby appointment hasn’t crept across my mind. It has. It’s even tried to disrupt my sleep once or twice, picking at the fear in hope of immobilizing me. I’ve recognized it, acknowledged it, then sent it on its way. Talk to me on Tuesday and I may give you a different story, but at least I’ll be freaked out closer to popping the pre-surgery sedative and have spent the weekend doing what I planned instead of lying cornered in the fetal position ... unless the Flyers were on Hockey Night in Canada, in which case I would have been fetal anyway. Until Tuesday, however, I am being here now.

 

And this moment looks pretty good.