Worry and Wisdom and Teeth

I imagine that every mother has a personal soapbox, which she ascends from time to time.

My primary soapbox? Go to sleep early each night.

I once read that every hour in dreamland that occurs before midnight counts as two hours of rest for your mind and body. I bought in, wholeheartedly.

Hear ye, hear ye: Commit to early nighttime z’s. 

My husband and children heard me murmuring about the importance of sleep for decades.

Have a sore throat? Turn in early.

SATs tomorrow morning? Get a good night’s rest.

Feeling blue? Go to sleep and everything will be brighter come morning.

I was fastidious regarding our children’s bedtime. No ifs, ands, or buts. In fact, I distinctly remember four-year-old Marcus asking me, one muggy summer’s night, why he had to go to bed before the sun?

Because I love you so, so, much and that is why, I answered, folding back his cool sheets and kissing his deliciously shampooed head. Sleep keeps you healthy and strong. 

He looked at me with large, handsome eyes and sighed. Can you read me a book?

And I happily obliged, followed by lights out.

My second soapbox?

Now that is a story far more complex.

//

Beginning the autumn of my junior year of high school, many friends and classmates fell absent on Fridays to face the dreaded wisdom teeth extraction, returning to classes on Mondays with mild facial swelling. By Tuesday their life had more or less returned to normal.

One blustery day during this season my mother informed me that I would be having four wisdom teeth extracted after Christmas. 

But they haven’t even poked through and nothing hurts, I moaned.

We did not spend thousands of dollars on braces to have wisdom teeth ruin your bite, she replied.

Two days after Christmas we made the trek to the city, my stomach empty, per doctor’s orders. Anyone familiar with New England will appreciate its narrow, snaking roads. I have forever been plagued by motion sickness, so by the time I was positioned in the endodontist’s chair, receiving twilight sedation, I was feeling poorly.

As it went, my wisdom teeth were perfectly comfortable in their current home, more deeply impacted than initially believed, and I still remember the digging, crushing, breaking, and scraping sounds as the doctor pressed on my face and rattled around in my mouth. I felt nothing but pressure yet swallowed much blood and was feeling worse by the minute.

Finally, the atrocious deed was done and as we checked out, the nurse reminded my mother to fill the prescriptions, and quickly. Your daughter will be having a hard time, soon.

The city’s second terror, in addition to swervy roads, is its traffic. The starting, the stopping, the honking, the motion.

Why, oh why did we not get the prescription filled earlier? I silently whimpered as the effects of the twilight meds dissipated and were replaced by stabbing pain that knifed through my stiff, tender jaw.

Because of said traffic paired with a pharmacy pit stop, followed by a 30-minute wait to have my prescription filled, our journey homeward took hours. I should have known something was off when during the excruciating drive I asked my mother to hand me her small purse mirror so that I could see why I felt like I was perishing. She declined. 

I don’t want you to be looking down and getting more carsick.

Too miserable to counter, I leaned back and attempted to doze.

Once home, I sipped ginger ale, downed pain pills, and huddled on the sofa as my mother fluffed pillows and tucked a blanket around my curled frame. As I drifted off I overheard her whispering to my brother and grandparents: unbelievably impacted…arduous…grotesque swelling.

It was true. My face, in fact, stretched and swelled to be an enormous bowling ball. When I finally crawled off the couch and into the bathroom I made the mistake of glancing at my reflection, and with a sharp cry became violently ill.

It is a terrifying thing to not recognize your own face. 

As the long hours ticked by, I was grieved to see the sun rising and setting, rising and setting, as the world carried on normally despite my disfigurement. Would I ever look like myself again? About the time milkshakes and soups began to lose their luster, I eyed the calendar, deeply concerned about the prospect of missing school and equally as terrified of ambling the halls with a bowling ball face.

Finally, I crept off the sofa but remained dizzy. After a full week of convalescing, the swelling began to subside. Regardless, my disfigurement was still obvious.

The cherry on top of this misery?

Bruising.

For weeks following my return to academia, my jaw was an artist’s delight: patches of black and blue, morphing into shades of army green, and finally a mustardy yellow. I appeared jaundiced for an entire month.

//

Time heals all wounds they say, and yes–I lived to tell about it. Five years later, my brand new husband casually mentioned that his jaw was hurting. 

At this point, we had been married for less than two months.

You mean it hurts like a cavity? I asked.

He was uncertain since he had never had one. 

I made an appointment and the dentist delivered the grim news.

Why do you still have your wisdom teeth at the age of 22! he looked incredulous. They must be removed. Immediately.

I could not believe this turn of events. We were beginning our new life together and had spent every shiny penny of our wedding money to buy groceries and a mattress, minus any pretty bed frame.

Why do you still have your wisdom teeth? I mentally repeated, mildly irritated, my brain a looping merry-go-round.

Come to think of it, why had I not questioned Jon about my nemesis—wisdom teeth–while we were dating? During my high school days, extraction was nearly a right of passage. Had this not been true of his high school, too?

The day of his surgery I flew to the grocery store and filled the cart with pudding, jello, applesauce, and ginger ale. After the successful procedure, he experienced some pain, little swelling, and no bruising.

//

This is what I thus determined in the quiet recesses of my heart. My mission and mantra. My battle cry. My soapbox.

No future children of ours would enter the state of holy matrimony with any wisdom teeth in their body. I would make certain of it. And when their surgery day arrived? We would have bushels of pain meds and Pepto Bismol on hand.

I tucked these firm promises away, bringing them out of my pocket like a worry stone when triggered by horrifying extraction stories and fables and jokes. Wisdom teeth were no laughing matter, in my book.

//

Over the next decade, we were blessed with four beautiful babies. 

I was too busy rocking newborns, changing diapers, and eventually homeschooling each one to contemplate their wisdom teeth. The days were long while the years sped by and one ordinary day when our oldest sons were 13 and 11, the dentist informed me that our strapping boys had unusually developed wisdom teeth for their young ages.

I sat up a little and felt my heart flutter. Were wisdom teeth still to be the bane of my existence? It seemed I could not escape it.

To give further context, I held, shall we say, a low opinion of this dentist. Because of our income at the time, and lack of insurance, my choices were few.

Better stated, he was our option.

The man was peculiar, making odd jokes as he polished our children’s teeth. I told Jon that I believed this white coat might be nipping the twilight medication. His favorite phrase to repeat in the presence of patients as he worked?

Life is like hugs and kisses are chocolate.

The boys howled later on at our dinner table, imitating his oddities with uncanny perfection.

After dinner, while standing at the sink sudsing plates and glasses, I ruminated. Eight wisdom teeth would need to be extracted within the next year. For no small sum, at that. I pulled out my invisible worry stone and studied the budget as though taking a final exam. There was not much to study.

But then I remembered my promise, my mantra, my dear soapbox. And where there is a will, there is always a way.

For the next nine months, every time Jon was paid I sped to the ATM and slipped cash into an envelope, which I then tucked beneath my socks in our dresser drawer. I asked God to help me stretch our groceries since that was the line item I was pulling from.

Gradually, the envelope fattened.

//

Ten months later Surgery Day arrived, and both boys eased into reclining chairs. One was done quickly, and the dentist met me in the waiting room to report that our son had pulled through quite nicely and was resting with an ice pack. 

I’ll be back in a jiffy after Patient Numero Dos is ready, he laughed, pretending to tap dance away.

Mother of the year, letting that man near my boys, I thought in despair.

The minutes slowly ticked by as I waited.

No word.

The entire shebang was taking far too long, and just when I could not endure another second, the doctor returned to the waiting area, looking peaked.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Couch, but your son is sleeping, his jaw closed. I cannot open it, nor can I awaken him enough to do so. I apologize, but our policy states that in such a case you will still have to pay the full amount. I know what you must be thinking, but this is a highly unusual situation.

My eyes widened as I thought:

Situation? SITUATION? That is my baby back there and don’t you realize that he cannot get married with wisdom teeth in place? Do you understand that I have the pain medications and Pepto stashed in my purse? And do you have any clue how long it has taken me to squirrel away this cash? How many spaghetti dinners and bland casseroles we have swallowed to make this happen?

I felt the tears threatening, before remembering my mantra and replacing fear with a focused calm. I was the mother right now, and no son of mine was going to exit this building with wisdom teeth in place. I thought of the tattered envelope, the months of simple dinner fare, and the bleak prospect of ever having to come back to this dreadful place again.

I looked Mr. White Coat directly in the eye.

His wisdom teeth must come out today. 

His eyebrows rose. 

Please, I said, more gently. Let me talk to my son.

He glanced at the wall clock. Okay. But he is lethargic and loopy and I promise you it it won’t work. I already tried. He sighed. Five minutes. I have other patients.

My son was in a daze as I hovered above him and slowly, clearly explained that he needed to relax and open his mouth for a few minutes because if he did not, we would have to reschedule the entire procedure which also meant missing a string of football practices.

He murmured and gradually relaxed his bite.

The doctor could not believe it, and soon the wisdom teeth were out. 

I emptied my entire cash envelope before the receptionist and asked for a receipt. Gathering my two exhausted sons, I fled.

//

Both boys swelled and were queasy in pitiful ways that Pepto could not assuage. But neither one bruised.

As for me, I finally sat down and took stock of my mantra.

Seeing the clear truth, I hurled my worry stone into the lake and laughed.

How silly I had been to worry about wisdom teeth. What good would ever come from fretting?

The bell of clarity rang deep in my bones. It was time to choose to trust God with everything, especially our children. I suddenly imagined how profitable it would have been not to worry, but to instead use my personal wisdom teeth trauma to serve my loves in utter confidence, modeling the exquisite truth that God does all things well, even in our deepest, darkest valleys. He is always present in our troubles, and always working his perfect wisdom on our behalf.

As their mother, I was graced with the opportunity to walk through every discomfort, every sickness, and every peril by their side, moving tenderly, and with prayer. But it was beyond me to prevent sickness and hardship, control life’s outcomes, and determine their futures.

I was chosen by God to love my children, pray for them, teach them the truth, and let them go.

//

By the time our two youngest –Marcus and Lauren– had their wisdom teeth extracted, we had dental insurance, meaning professional endodontists, which translated into normal communication, rather than pathetic tap dancing and bizarre phrases regarding hugs and chocolates. In fact, I was even able to fill a prescription for anti-nausea meds which proved revolutionary. Lauren swelled up as her two older brothers had, but it was short-lived and without bruising. 

It was Marcus who came through with flying colors, nearly unscathed, looking as though no extraction had even taken place. I told myself that this fine turn of events made up for the hardships of early bedtimes as a little boy.

//

These days, with the nest empty of our favorite people in the whole wide world, I turn in early, honoring the magnificence of my early-to-bed and early-to-rise philosophy. I relax and enjoy page-turners on my Kindle Paperwhite and then pray for my dear family, all of whom are busy living out the daily without the perils of wisdom teeth.

When I am tempted to brood, I remember that my Heavenly Father instructs me not to worry. So I turn in confidence to Him, trusting his every promise.

The day is finished, so I close my eyes and go to sleep.

Early.

Because every single hour before midnight counts as two…

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And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? (Luke 12:25)

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. (Philippians 4:6-7)

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)

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