The last week of February has been a tad bit busy around here. There’s been fun mixed with not-fun. My nephew was born Sunday night (and a very cute nephew he is, at that). Fun. Then Wednesday morning, I had a root canal. Not-fun. A couple years ago, I broke a back molar while sleeping. Yep. I’m a sleeping teeth-grinder. Why do I do that? Grrrr. I wish I knew. It’s definitely the number one thing I would change about myself if I could. But I do it and that’s life. So, I’ve been sporting a lovely gold crown on said broken tooth for a couple years now. Well, about two months ago, I guess the crack finally reached the root and I’ve been in a fair amount of pain ever since. As much as I tried to avoid it, two different dentists said I needed a root canal. Not really the thing I would CHOOSE to spend my tax refund on, but hey. At least I had a tax refund at all, right?
Wednesday morning I went in for the procedure that everyone on the internet said is just not that bad. I am here to tell you that all those people on the internet were wrong. It was bad. So much worse than I was prepared for. After ten shots of anesthesia (with the last couple going directly in the bone), I still felt pain. But I lived with it. Then I was told that my tooth was like an old lady’s, with the roots extremely close together and all calcified. And of course, I had three canals, rather than two. Basically, I had my mouth propped open two inches wide for three hours while the endodontist dug and dug and scraped and dug. At the end of all that, she wasn’t able to finish because I’m what is lovingly referred to as a bleeder. “We got a bleeder here!” were her exact words. So they temporarily filled me in, sent me home with antibiotics and hydrocodone and told me to come back in three weeks, when I’ve hopefully stopped bleeding, so they can finish.
Wednesday night, I was determined to go to the Ash Wednesday service at church with the family. We went out to Panera to get soup before church, since that was about all my teeth and jaw could handle. While there, Grace got her fingers pinched in the hinge area of the heavy bathroom door. Ouch. It was awful. She cried and cried and kicked her legs in pain for at least forty-five minutes. No Ash Wednesday service for me and Grace. Chris took us home and took Callie and Sadie to church with him. Grace now has two very black fingernails and the bruise goes all the way through the fingertips to the inside of her poor little fingers. Again, I say ouch. Chris and I have this habit of saying “Doggone it” when our kids get hurt. It’s our way of showing sympathy. We hold them and tell them we’re sorry and say “Doggone it.” Grace, who tends to turn words around in the cutest ways without even trying to be funny, has recently turned that into “Darn slabbit.” So that’s what we’ve been saying about things this week. I mean, what else can you say, really?
Thursday passed in a haze, which involved some of the worst pain I can ever remember having in my life. Thank God for hydrocodone.
And now it’s Friday. I just took the kids to school and there were green and white buds on the trees. Spring is in the air. The next thing you know, March will be upon us. I think that March is glorious.
I think I can do this life.
I think I can.