It looks like a cool modern sculpture, but it’s just a tooth.  One of them left my body on Tuesday morning, thanks to anaesthetic and the skill of my dentist.  It was a rotten little thing that could have infected its neighbour if left alone.

I’ve been taking Paracetamol (Tylenol) every six hours for the pain.  My logical mind (often not to be trusted) says that it would be strongest the first day, and decline from there.  Forty-eight hours after the procedure, the pain is rising.  The Internet says that’s normal – something about inflammation.  “Day Three is the worst.”

Okay.  I’m a big boy.  I can handle this.

I usually go towards the challenges in my life, rather than running away from them.  At 5:00 am this morning, I tossed that idea out the window. 

There’s the pain scale (1 = no pain, 10 = excruciating pain).  I was at 6.  Not happy.

I know the strategy called “Be with the pain.  Let it be there.  Don’t add ‘Ain’t it awful?’  And then it will leave.” 

I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to let it be.  I defined “6” as too much.  My mind said “Do something!”  So I did.

I put my glasses on, reached for my phone and looked for a Facebook post about Maya Gebala.  I started reading the comments of love.  And I was transported to Maya’s hospital room in Vancouver.

Absorbed in the giving, I forgot about my mouth.  When I noticed it again, the number had dropped to 2.

Hours later, halfway through my six-hour Paracetamol period, it’s back to 5.

My body is pooped.  My bed is calling me once again.  And I’m amazed.  A 12-year-old girl fighting for her life gave me relief.

***

Oh … the mystery of living in this world