The Upside to Novacaine

You hear people say a lot of things about root canals; mostly, how awful they are. They seem to be the benchmark against which people measure some truly awful opportunity. "I'd rather get a root canal than have to vote for Donald Trump," someone might say. I might say that, at least.

You never hear about what good they do, though.

About 24 hours ago, I had just been told by my dentist that it was possible I would lose my tooth and have to pay $4,000 for an implant.

NO. I panicked. I had just posted a blog about how much I wanted to lean into hope, how much I intended to look for it, to write every day until my husband heads out of town and then, bam.

I was really angry. I mean, sobbing, angry.

So, when the endodontist today said that, no, actually, he could save the tooth with a root canal and let's go ahead and get this thing done and get you out of pain, it was like someone was giving me a huge puppy. OK, a puppy that required a lot of novacaine and two hours in the chair, but still.

Seriously, it's all about perspective people.

Graying, toothless, 37 year-old woman with sleep-deprived bags under eyes and an anger complex, because, really, let's add a big empty socket in my mouth right now?

OR, graying 37 year-old woman with sleep-deprived bags under eyes and a hope complex.

I'll take the second, thank you very much.

And now I sit here, very gingerly sipping some warm coffee, trying to infuse myself with some energy before the little people wake up. Maybe years ago, I would have come back from hours of dental work and thrown a movie in, but now, I'll be down and dirty on the floor, playing trucks, wrestling, changing stinky diapers, having dance parties with a numb face.

And I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, maybe it'd be nice to have an hour on the couch with a movie, but my oldest son injured his foot in PE today so HE gets the couch and the movie and an icepack and, as I promised myself I would do, I am writing. Claiming gratefulness, looking for hope.

Yes, today, friends, I am grateful for a root canal. As the pamphlet so eloquently puts it, today my diseased pulp was replaced "with a substance that will keep the tooth functional."  Sounds familiar. As I was laying in the chair, staring at the ivory ceiling, nodding along when the the doctor asked me questions, I had time to think.

This is so what God is doing right now.

He sees all this struggle, all the anger I have, the selfishness, all the ways I am way too weak to handle life on my own. He sees it, he diagnoses it. And then he drills down through my bitter exterior. He slowly, methodically, lifts out the gunk and replaces it with something that will make me function even better. He doesn't come down and rip the whole damn tooth out, leaving an empty spot and teeth that shift around and an awkward way to chew and a less than winning smile.

He saves who I am but makes it SO MUCH BETTER.

I gotta be honest, though, I do wish there was something akin to spiritual novacaine. Something that makes it feel less painful as the work is being done.

Oh, wait.

There actually is. If there was one thing I have seen, time and time again when I have found myself to be at the edge...during our miscarriage or years of infertility or waiting for our adoptions and now in the midst of an incredibly challenging phase in parenting...I have seen the people. The people who make meals. Who offer to fly out and help. Who pick up your kids so they can go play and you can nap or shower or write. Who text you things to make you laugh when you need it. Who pray.

People, friends. You guys. Spiritual novacaine.

And the upside to spiritual novacaine as opposed to a shot in the bloody gums?

You guys don't leave my face numb. You just leave it with a smile.

So, thanks. Thanks for your responses yesterday when I laid bare my heart. Thanks for those who are pitching in when he is gone. And those who are far away but who will be praying and thinking of us and yes, sending me things to make me laugh in the midst of it.

That's the kind of shot worth having.

Face Time

Gym class, circa 1988.  There were huge blue mats on the floor. I don't remember why, but I remember the scene like it was yesterday. We were standing in line waiting our turn to do...well, something involving mats, I guess.

The boy in front of me, whose name I do remember but will not share so as not to publicly shame him 27 years later, turned around and stared at me with his eyes squinted in scrutiny. Then he said five words that have never left me.

"What's wrong with your face?"

It was a sentence I had wondered occasionally when I looked in the mirror. But after all, I was only in 4th grade. I didn't look in the mirror all that often yet. Just as now, fashion wasn't exactly my gift. I wore boys jeans and fought my mom when she suggested I wear something cute to church on Sundays. I got dressed in the morning, probably attempted to curl my bangs so they would stand straight up (because you have to fit in SOMEHOW) and then left for school.

But yes, there were times I had wondered- why is my face so red? Why doesn't my skin look like the other girls'? Why? It hadn't bothered me much, likely because I didn't really think about the fact that other people might notice it and, more brutally, judge it.

Until gym class.

After gym class, I assumed everyone noticed it and my lifelong struggle with my skin started. A struggle I think I have only ever admitted to my mom. And more recently, to my husband. Probably my college roommates had some kind of clue, too. We were kind of all into each other's business.

Of course, one's skin doesn't usually improve with age, so the self-conscious thoughts that began to fester when I was 9 began to increase when teenage acne joined the game. When sunburns and sweaty, red faces from sporting events, when scars from injuries entered the picture, it certainly didn't get better. I am ashamed to say it was on my mind way more than I am comfortable admitting.

"I'm a Christian," I would think, "I shouldn't care about this, I should be content, I should think about spiritual things, for goodness sake," was a mantra that I repeated over and over and over. For years. But no amount of repetition or prayer or wishing the thoughts away, no new skin regimen or vitamins did anything. It stayed on my mind.

The bottom line? I was embarrassed...ok, let's be honest, I AM embarrassed to leave the house without makeup on. Without something that covers over the dark spots and the scars and red skin that I've had since I was a child. I don't necessarily need all the other stuff- the mascara and lipstick and perfect hair- but sometimes, on my worst days, I even put foundation on to go to the gym. The gym, people. Where it's going to melt off my face anyway because, let's face it, I am not one of those women who daintily glistens when she works out. I sweat, people.

A few months ago a former colleague began selling a new skin regimen. I clicked on her pictures out of curiosity. Another promise, another failure, right? And really, I NEED to stop caring about this. I'm 36. I should get over it.

But hope began to simmer a little. What if this stuff really does work? What if those before and after pictures are authentic and unfiltered? What if I could stop hating my skin, stop being embarassed, stop thinking about it all the time? What if?

I sat on that thought for a number of months. Trying to talk myself out of caring. Again. Trying to pray for contentment. Again. Trying to look in the mirror less so I wouldn't notice my red, dry, old-looking skin.

At some point, though, in the midst of trying so hard not to care, so hard to redirect my thoughts, so hard to push away the guilt when I failed, something occurred to me.

What if it's alright to care about this?

What if it is not wrong to want this to change a little? That maybe part of the healing in this would be doing something to make it healthier and maybe it's not wrong to want it to look nicer, healed, the way it should look at my age. Maybe it wasn't nonspiritual of me to care. Maybe it was actually spiritual to want to be healed physically in a way that would contribute helpfully to my lifelong battle to truly see myself as God sees me.

So, I am taking a risk here. I am going to post my "before" shot - makeup free. It's awful. I look tired (which, let's be honest) I am. I look weathered and splotchy. I look worn and older than my years. Maybe all moms of toddlers look a little haggard, I don't know. I surely do.

January 2015 @ 36 Years Old

My hope is this, though. That in taking a risk and posting this, even if this regimen doesn't help, even if my skin doesn't change, being more open about this secret struggle will, like I have learned so painfully during the years of blogging, expose me in a way that helps move me towards healing.

Do I also really hope the skin regimen helps? Heck yeah.

But I also hope that saying the words out loud and giving this struggle a chance to change will begin to do a good work long before I would notice significant aesthetic results, anyway.