Archive for March 2011
Pillow fight!
Yesterday was a cold and dreary day.
These kinds of days can often go
one way or another;
DVDs and curled up under blankets
or
thinking up a crazy photo shoot and making it happen.
The girls and I have recently discovered a quaint little shop in the main street of town
that sells vintage clothes and hats and shoes
and so we made our way there
and happened upon some sleepwear from the 1950s.
We came up with a sleepover shoot
and spent the afternoon in fits of giggles.
There were so many photos taken and many of them blurry
because of the action (I kind of like a little blur but it’s not for everyone).
So here are some of the photos that you may never have seen,
had it not been for Kim’s Sunday Selection meme.
A finding of peace.
I don’t remember who paid for William’s funeral.
The tiny pastel blue coffin,
the flowers – roses, yellow.
The people who came and put my baby into the ground.
The wake.
I don’t think it was me
but I can’t be sure.
I don’t remember if it was me who purchased the outfit that I wore
or why I chose it
or if I chose it at all.
I just remember being in a shop with women friends
pushing me in and out of the fitting room
filling my arms with clothes.
I’ve long since given those away,
along with a lot of baby things.
William’s things.
When I try to remember that day
not much comes.
Just a haze of people and colours amongst some sharp memories;
that it was an extraordinarily hot day for mid April,
that the long street that harboured the church was lined for as long as the eye could see with cars -
people who had come to honour a baby boy they would never know.
That David scooped the little coffin into his arms
and carried it outside,
the sun catching the small silver hinges and creating a prism of light
that winked and danced for just a moment in the doorway
and the heavy darkness,
the stifling mustiness of the church,
once it was gone.
Is that weird, I wonder.
Is it weird too,
that I am pondering those things now.
Still.
Sometimes someone will say something benign
like;
“Seven kids! Wow! Your life must be very full.”
and I will feel this amazing wash of sadness and anger all at once
the kind that makes me want to cry or scream or something just as effective,
something that announces that there should be eight
and then I remember
that most people don’t know what it’s like to have a baby die
or that there even was a baby boy before Ivy and Noah
or know what it is like to walk around in the every day
with a piece of your heart missing
all of the time.
Most people are shuffling through life with their own worries and burdens.
Just trying to get through.
Living for each moment.
Almost seven years is a long time
even if it is just like yesterday to his mother
and so I come to my safe place instead of making a scene
and wonder what life would be like with a first born son in the mix.
I’m not sad most of the time.
Seven years has taught me so much,
allowed me passage
to find my feet again
and when I think about him
I remember his feet
and his hands
and his small upturned mouth.
I remember the happy things.
I’m guessing that has to be a normal part of this too.
An acceptance of sorts.
An ebb and a flow with grief.
A finding of peace.
Having a wisdom tooth out is not very wise.
Okay.
I’m going to admit something to you.
In all of my years here on this earth
I have never needed any dental work.
Ever.
Not one filling or extraction,
just a whole line of dentists who look in my mouth,
give it a terse cleaning
and proclaim they will not be making any money from me today.
I know.
Lucky, right?
I’m also going to admit to you that my teeth
were my pride and joy.
Out of all of the things I find fault with
my mouth is not one of them.
Conceited?
Probably.
So can you imagine how mortified I was sometime in late December
when a big chunk of my right bottom wisdom tooth came out?
Imagine it.
It wasn’t pretty.
Now imagine late January when it started to ache
and me making an appointment and then canceling to see the dentist
over
and
over
until I couldn’t stand the pain anymore.
It was ugly
and I am not proud of myself
but
it came to pass
that three days ago I followed through
and went to see the dentist.
The place was called “Happy Tooth”
I mean, come on,
how happy is a tooth going to be knowing that it was extraction city or bust?
Mine was certainly not a happy tooth
or rather,
the owner of said tooth (me) was less than thrilled to be there.
They make it look all joyful and such
with brightly coloured doors leading into the chambers of doom
and this crazy zebra print flooring that totally plays with your mind
but I’m not stupid.
I can hear other patrons screaming over the happy joy joy music.
It’s my tooth that is broken.
Not my ears.
My name is called and David (who has undergone more dentistry than I care to imagine) and I move into ‘the orange room’.
The dentist,
who is young and beautiful,
smiles beneath her mask as she brings up a picture of my previously x rayed jaw.
“Oh, yes”, she croons, “that must be hurting, look at that erosion. All the way down”.
I glance at Dave, who gives me such a reassuring grimace, I half expect him to give me a double thumbs up.
The hazy x ray shows me what I have known for two months now-
the tooth needs to come out.
“It’s a fairly straight forward procedure” she says and explains the ins and outs of extraction.
About a minute into her description my legs begin to shake.
Soon my mouth is numb on the whole of the right side (after a double block, I’m told)
and the dentist brings out what I lovingly come to know as the digger.
After a while
and after several other instruments (the scraper, the screwdriver, the ice pick)
the dental nurse hands over
the biggest pair of forceps ever
and I suddenly think of an alligator sealing its mouth around its prey.
She places the steely pincers and begins to push and pull
to try to lever the tooth from its home
but the tooth doesn’t budge.
The dentist tries a few more maneuvers
and finally
sweating and shaking from the sheer force that she has expelled
she tells me she is going to get another dentist.
Suddenly, my orange room is full with masked avengers
determined to remove the tooth.
I close my eyes as they each take a turn probing and pulling
and extracting the wisdom out of me
but the tooth is seemingly comfortable in its warm gum bed
and the senior of the two
looks me up and down
and almost sobs;
“we’ll have to dissect the tooth”.
Next my mouth is filled with water and suction and air
and I feel as though I am choking and drowning and without any saliva all at once
then the next piece of torturous equipment appears.
It looks like a mini circular saw on a metal stick
and along with the suction and the air and the water
and the gloved fist of the dentist
the mini saw finds its way into my mouth
and whirs around for a while.
I can see white bits of my once precious tooth
flying through the air.
One nurse even catches a piece
and I think for a moment
that she is one multi talented girl
until I remember that its my fang that is now in shards.
The tooth has grown into my jawline, it seems.
the roots have lovingly hooked themselves into the bone
and after much sweat and hard labour,
the tooth and one root gives up.
Then it is a case of rinse, lather repeat.
My mouth feels like somebody has forced three tennis balls inside it
and then slammed it from the outside with a cricket bat.
Repeatedly.
The dentist is pleased that its over
and takes a quick x ray
only to discover that there is a third root.
We collectively slump.
More needles and anaesthetic
and pushing and pulling
and the root is gone.
The senior dentist smiles broadly.
Apparently, I am one of the lucky 2% of the population who has a third root coming from my wisdom teeth.
Oh yes, you read it right.
All of my wisdom teeth
and this was only one removal today.
“When you come back to have the others out,” she begins
but the look on my face must scream something that resembles
a sadistic form of harm,
“well, we’ll talk about that after you get over this.” she suggests
and backs away slowly,
not making eye contact.
I sit up to rinse and a nurse assistant dabs at my rapidly swelling face
and tells me that my lips are smeared with dry blood.
I picture the Joker in the Batman movie
laughing meniacally at his reflection in the broken mirror
and start to chuckle.
“At least you can still laugh about it” says the beautiful dentist
and suddenly I don’t feel like laughing any more.
I (kind of) smile though and thank her for the experience of what my husband later describes as
knee reconstruction surgery to my tooth.
My mouth and my face have started to throb.
I pay the equivalent of this month’s mortgage payment
for the pleasure of losing three hours of my life
and promise that I will rinse! rinse! rinse!
and call (over my dead body) if anything untoward happens.
David has long gone to pick up the little ones from school
but I cannot stay at The Happy Tooth for one more minute
so I leave and hope he will not be long.
Three days later and I can still barely open my mouth
but salvation comes from my mother and concerned online friends,
who have given their toothache remedies to me
and David
who has thankfully taken the day off
to help the helpless
and for the first time in days
I am relatively pain free.
About to attempt scrambled eggs, made on cream and a sprinkling of cheese.
It seems many others have been through the extraction
and survived
and as I gather my courage to have the final three pulled
I have learnt alot
but mostly
that having a wisdom tooth out, under a local anesthetic
does not seem very wise at all.
Where words fail.
“Where words fail, music speaks” ~ Hans Christian Anderson
The theme at I heart faces is ‘anything but a face’.
I love taking photos like this.
The eyes may be the window to the soul
but
the body is such an expressive thing too.
I had lots to chose from but I think this is my favourite.
This was taken a few days after Ivy’s last port placement.
She had been very sore and bruised and teary.
It was lovely to see her dressed up in one of her favorite tutus
dancing and singing.
That’s when I know everything is going to be okay.