Shut-Up and Quit Eating: A Lesson In Self-Discipline

I had the opportunity to visit Mayo Clinic this morning to see an oral surgeon. I wondered what the guy would be like because I figure anyone who chooses a profession that requires sticking one's hands and face into another's mouth to create disgusting ripping-of-teeth-from-tissue sounds along with much blood and pain, must be a real piece of work. He turned out instead to be a pretty cool guy.

The trip to the surgeon began in the Saturday blizzard. I managed to get the van stuck in the subdivision that evening, before I realized that "No Travel Advised" applied to me. I turned around before even leaving the subdivision, but still ended up stuck on the hill leading to our driveway. I was stuck for an hour, providing a fantastic window show for our cooped up neighbors, much to my humiliation.

Another neighbor was able to go around me only to get stuck in his driveway. A few of the kind and merciful neighbors, of which I was counted ONLY because I too was stuck, helped to push him out. While pushing, I leaned too far forward and therefore when my feet slipped, I was only able to stop myself from falling by smashing my face onto the ice-crusted back window. It hurt like hell, but I didn't outwardly react, not wanting to call any more attention to myself than my snow-impaired van and poor judgement already had.

Mark tried to wipe the blood off my face, thinking it was slush. I want to tell you that I reacted to his kindness like a loving, appreciative wife, but the fact of the matter is that the instant he reached for my throbbing, stinging face, I swiped and spat at him like an angry cat.

And that was it. I spent the next two days with some dull pain above my teeth and in a jaw joint, marveling at how quickly it all happened, and wondering if it was going to cost me much pain and money to fix whatever I had messed up in my mouth.

On Monday, my dentist, who looks like a perky 15 year old but is so incredibly sweet and competent that I feel guilty thinking that about her, took a look at my situation, asked if I had REALLY actually been in a bar fight, suggested my jaw could be broken and referred me to the oral surgeon.

I spent the next 23 hours trying not to be anxious about the possibility of surgery, a wired shut mouth and excessive pain. I resisted the urge to Google the possibilities and sang loudly to tune out any and all friends who tried to tell me what this could mean. "It is what it is," I reasoned, "and there's nothing I can do about any of it."

Oral Surgeon took a look and said it was some-big-medical-word-that-I-couldn't-have-repeated-even-if-I-had-written-it-down-and-practiced. Then interpreted it as "trauma to the jaw joint" that is treatable with prescription anti-inflammatory drugs and several days of no eating or talking. He acted remorseful as he broke that news to me, and I had to fight the overwhelming urge to give him a bear hug. "Well, that's painless!" I cheerfully exclaimed, romantically picturing a silent, relaxing week enjoying unlimited cups of glorious coffee.

Then I got home, where James popped Timothy in the head with his Leap Tag pen and Emily hadn't done her math homework and everyone was hungry and Mark wondered what the prognosis was. I was so hungry for a salad for lunch, and the "glorious" coffee left in the pot was stale and cold. I realized that this is not going to be easy. I'm going to have to choose my words very carefully and quit talking to myself altogether, and maybe buy some yogurt.

This is a fantastic opportunity to monitor and evaluate both what goes into, and comes out of, my mouth. I guess that a pop in the jaw by an icy car window is just what I needed!