Toothache
For months, I had an ache in my jaw. I finally went to the dentist, and they snapped an x-ray. My wisdom tooth had grown in at a ninety degree angle.
It was capsized like the child sleeping on his mother’s lap during Sunday’s early sermon — as long as he didn’t snore, it would be fine.
But this tooth had started making a ruckus. The crown was ramming into the root of the molar next to it. They said it was impacted. They would have to cut it out of my jaw.
I was awake for all of it. The surgeon opened up my gum and de-crowned the obtrusive tooth like a rebellion leader would a tyrant. When he discovered the roots, he wrenched and heaved, but they wouldn’t let go.
“I’ve never seen them like this,” he swore.
They gave me another injection, and for almost an hour, all I could feel was the pressure, the tug-of-war between the surgeon and my ornery roots. When the last was finally free, I understood that, on rare occasions, emptiness can be followed by relief.
I went home, swollen and sore, and sobbed over dribbled water. You asked me if I wanted pizza for dinner.
I had to re-learn how to eat. Even after the stitches dissolved, I was anxious about chewing anything denser than a peach. When I was supposed to be completely healed, there was still a dull pain in my jaw. But I knew…
