It started on our first day at the lake, a little sensitivity on a back molar as I bit into a piece of blueberry pie. I winced, took a sip of coffee, and passed my dessert over to Jack, who was happy to have it. We were thirty minutes from the nearest town, and three hours from my dad, the only dentist I’ve ever had in my life. There wasn’t much I could do, other than try to distract myself. For three days, I managed to feign bliss and good health. I walked and ran, swam, did yoga, participated in each evening’s FGOS (family game of Scrabble), read books on the shore, savored every meal with my husband and our two sons. Except for when I had to actually chew. Suddenly, the simple pleasure of eating together had become a kind of torture. And then came the moment, midway through the week, when I just had to give up. I couldn’t fake it for even one more martyred minute. I was in pain whether I was eating or not. Lots of pain. The blast-right-through-and-pretend-it-isn’t-happening trick didn’t work at all once my jaw swelled up and the tears began pricking at the backs of my eyelids.
“Chronic physical pain is one of the harshest teachers you can have,” writes Eckhert Tolle. Amen. Laying in bed, trying to take deep, calming breaths while my jaw throbbed and my temples ached and the pain pulsed in my head with every beat of my heart, I began to get a little panicky. How much worse could it get? I wondered. And what the heck was going on anyway? I, the dentist’s daughter who’d gone through life without so much as a real cavity, was not supposed to get some random, debilitating toothache. Especially not during the one precious week we all look forward to throughout the other fifty-one weeks of the year, our expensive, idyllic, end-of-summer retreat on a gorgeous lake in Maine.
Steve and Henry and Jack commiserated. They brought me mint tea, ice cream, and hot washcloths for my brow. Word went out around the campfire, so to speak, and before long, friends in nearby cabins were offering antibiotics and painkillers, acupressure treatments and goldenseal. I walked up the road, called my dad on my cell phone, and read the words on the proffered bottles to him. “Take the antibiotics,” he said. “Take the painkillers.”
I spent the rest of the week in a haze of pain and woozy stupor. Time slowed down, and I told myself that wasn’t such a bad thing. I read a book that I don’t remember reading, sat on the porch, slept in the sun, and spent a lot of time curled up in bed, listening to the sounds of kids playing on the beach and boats whizzing by.
For a few weeks now, I’ve been repeating a meditation by Adyashanti that strikes me as radical, simple, and incredibly challenging: “Allow everything to be exactly as it is.” Sometimes, sitting cross-legged on my pillow, after a nice long yoga practice, I can actually do it. Having used my body, calmed my mind, gotten back in touch with my own center, it is possible for me to sit in stillness, to breathe, and to allow everything to be exactly as it is.
But I’ve been humbled here by an unexpected sock to the jaw. We’re back at home now, and there are lots of things that I ought to be doing. Instead, I’ve been to see my dad three times. He opened a back molar, found a crack in the tooth, put in a bonded filling. The pain, however, isn’t going away. X-rays don’t show a thing, but the throbbing in my jawbone is real, the jolt when I chew is real, the desperation at 4 am, when the pain extends from ear to chin, is real. I type these words with a couple of cotton rolls stuffed between my upper and lower teeth, to keep them from touching each other.
The pain lesson was not on my to-do list for this week. But here I am, the student who’s just been dragged in by her ear and shown to her seat in the classroom. “Resistance is futile” is the theme for the day. Getting on with my life — cleaning the house, doing the back-to-school shopping, exercising — isn’t an option.
And so I remind myself to accept what is. Instead of fighting the pain, I am trying to bring all those years of yoga practice into this moment. How hard it is, to truly surrender. But that’s what I’m up to today. Giving in. In the grand scheme of things, one sore jaw isn’t much, and yet it can so easily seem to be everything. (Certainly trying to avoid it, and then fighting it, has taken up most of my attention and energy for the last week.) I’ve concluded that it’s time for a different tack. Time to bring some acceptance into my nonacceptance, and to see what happens when I allow everything to be exactly as it is.
when i read your writing, i feel as though you are creating healing paths and sanctuaries in my inner landscape, a cartography for my internal geography. thank you. hoping your tooth journey opens/deepens the river of acceptance and surrender.
Oh honey, dental problems suck… I'm with you! I had my first root canal last week after enduring horrific pain that I eventually had to give in to.
Hope you're feeling better!
As always, your words come at just the right time. I am slogging through week 39 of pregnancy, desperate to move to the other side of motherhood, showing no signs of that happening anytime soon. Meanwhile, I am watching women due AFTER me give birth, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to punch the next person who tells me, "Babies come on their own schedule." Yesterday I hit a major emotional wall, and after a lot of tears, I am trying to embrace the lesson you proffer above: "Allow everything to be exactly as it is." Much like your toothache, waiting an extra week isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things — but it sure feels like it in when you're in the middle, doesn't it?
wonderful example of existential living. Narrow and unexpected pathway to existential living, but the result is the same. I do hope that relief comes your way soon. 🙂
Thank you for taking the time and loving kindness to focus during the midst of this experience and share it with us. What is humbling is also connective—there's just so far we can get within ourselves before realizing that we also need each other, for all those "others" are our truer Self anyway.
When it comes to pain as a teacher, I like to ask it what it is trying to tell me (as I sit reading your words, my own back molar pulsing in recognition at it awaits the crown the dentist is crafting for it). It's powerful that in your case your teeth connect you to your dad… it makes me think about how crying, even as an adult, still harkens back to the first days of life where we learn that crying (hopefully) brings comfort. Maybe your tooth is reminding you that you love and need your dad even as you're all grown-up in the eyes of so many others. Or maybe a toothache's just a toothache.
No matter what, sending healing wishes (and a little Arnica can help too). Namaste, BD
Funny, I feel pain when I read Adyashanti too. (An inside joke, but I know your priorities are crystal clear.)
OUCH
I had a dentist when I lived in Mass. who was wonderful. Any time I complained too much, he said "Ehhhh … remember, you're over 30. If you'd lived awhile back, you would likely have been dead from infection, or saber-toothed tiger attack, by now."
I always hated him in the exact moment he said it, because he was calling me on my sense of entitlement — "why me?". But he was right!
FEEL BETTER, Katrina! <3
I've heard it said that if you think you're enlightened, go visit your family. The same must be true of the dentist which coincidentally, I did yesterday after two weeks away visiting family.
I love the part where you say, "But here I am, the student who’s just been dragged in by her ear and shown to her seat in the classroom."
It reminds me of this quote by Roethke, "I learn by going where I have to go." For me that was both to the dentist (which I hate to do) and to this seat to write my own dental post (which I didn't want to re-live.)
Funny that your dad is a dentist. (Mine is a doctor.) And I can't believe you've never had a cavity! You probably won't relate at all with what I wrote, but then again, misery loves company: http://2owlscalling.wordpress.com/2010/08/26/the-yoga-of-teeth/
Fondly, Kelly
ps.much compassion for you!!!
Katrina,
So sorry for the pain. When I have pain, I can't think straight. Your words are so eloquently written even though you don't feel well.
I am raising you up with positive, good health thoughts!
Clare
Oh no! I've missed you lately but knew you were enjoying family and summer so I've been patient. Now I'm saddened, that your joyous time was turned upside down by pain. I truly feel for you. I had a root canal three weeks ago, after spending three weeks unable to eat much because of pain. It is truly a lesson of appreciating the small things, like chewing food painlessly. (and being able to feel full) .
I am glad your dad could be there for you. We never stop being the child. This weekend will be the 16th anniversary of my mom's passing and I was struck by sadness today as I got in the car and the first song on the radio was one of her favorites. I fought back tears as I immediately drove to the local store and bought flowers for two co-workers who lost their moms this year. (one is very young). Putting flowers on their desks made my heart feel better.
Dont know how this helps you but I want you to know you are in my heart as you get this figured out. Hugs, my friend.
judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
I hope you are well soon. I have experience with chronic pain. It has been my teacher and I have had to learn to surrender. I understand.
Oh Katrina,
your writing is so introspective and beautiful. I was wondering how you were healing from the tooth ache. I know that clenching and did it for years. Surrender is a soft powerful force needed with teenage boys beyond our control. We can only hope that transparency, honesty and our voices resonate in their minds at the right moments. I enjoy your blog so much. You re in my heart. Missing you with love-JILL