Unhappy Heather's trip to the dentist (x3)

Since I’m moving up to Kelowna, I’ve been tying up some loose ends here. One of those included booking an appointment at the dentist.
I’d been feeling like I had a cavity and it had been awhile, so I went on Monday this week. Let me first preface this by saying that I am a fastidious tooth brusher. I brush my teeth about three times a day, and boy, do I ever scrub them. I rinse my mouth out after drinking coke or coffee and I chew gum all the time (which, by the way, prevents cavities). I realized it had been too long since I was at the dentist when the bristles of my toothbrush started coming off in my mouth.
I lay back in the dentist’s chair while they made small talk (just like hairdressers- it must be a required part of the job description). They took a couple of X-rays and then the dentist held them up to me.
“You have 4 cavities.” He said. “And your teeth need cleaning. And you have serious gum recession that is unusual in a person so young.”
“Can you fix it all?” I asked hopefully.
He laughed. “Well, we can fix the cavities. As for the gum recession, if it doesn’t get better within 6 months, we’ll have to take a skin graft from the roof of your mouth and put it on your lower gum.”
I’d never even heard of gum recession before.
“I brush my teeth all the time.” I told him. (Okay, so maybe I’m not so good at flossing, but seriously, who is?)
“It can be caused by brushing too hard.” He said, “Or not brushing enough. There’s sort of a fine balance. But it is compounded by the fact that you have a type of saliva that is more prone to get cavities, and no matter how much you brush, you can’t really prevent them.”
I knew of course that my problem was brushing too hard. And all this time I was concerned about having white teeth.
So he froze my bottom jaw and then the hygienist applied that horrible instrument of torture called the rubber dam. I tried to be brave but it hurt going in and then she stuck a wedge between my other jaw and asked me how I was feeling.
“I feel like I have a basketball in my mouth.” I said to her, but I think it came out more like “Gurbledy gurp.”
They drilled away. I stared at the ceiling and at the sharp shiny things going in my mouth out of the corner of my eye, and tried to think relaxing thoughts, like pretending I was lying on the beach in Antigua again.
Then they finished the filling, but Oh Joy! There was more. The hygienist took out the rubber dam and wiped the humiliating saliva that was drooling all over my face, and the dentist froze my upper jaw, and then the hygienist put in ANOTHER rubber dam on the top.
“Does that feel all right?” She asked.
“Please can you suction the saliva that is running down the back of my throat and choking me?” I asked. Gurbledy gurbledy gurp.
Then the drill again. I thought about my poor little sister Hannah who can’t have dental work done the conventional way- she has to go under general anesthetic and at the very moment I was lying in the comfortable chair, she was being intubated at Children’s hospital. Some people’s crosses are heavier to bear…. I didn’t feel like whining.
They finished the second filling and then the dentist told me to come back later in the afternoon for another couple of hours, I had been lucky enough to get a spot right away. Might as well get it all over with, I thought.
I had some errands to run and at the bank I used sign language and at the store I smiled with half my mouth and pretended I had Bell’s palsy or something. The cashier responded well to the sad look in my eyes.
Back at the dentist I got into the reclining chair and decided it wasn’t my favorite place to be. There was a different hygienist this time; and she wasn’t quite as intuitive to my pain threshold. She cleaned my teeth with something that felt like a wire brush digging into my gums. Because of my gum recession problem, the tooth roots on two of my teeth are exposed and exquisitely painful. I begged her to give me some freezing but nothing seemed to cut the pain.
“You’re quite a sensitive girl, aren’t you?” She asked, accidentally spraying water in my nose. I stared at the ceiling and thought happy thoughts.
They told me I was lucky enough to get an appointment the next day, too. Back at home I sipped tea and felt a little sorry for myself.
Today I went back to the dentist again for my third dose of punishment, on the other side of my mouth. I feel like all I’ve been doing is hanging out in that quiet office with the whirring drills and polite small talk. The hygienist led me to the torture chair and removed my personal affects. She tilted the chair so I was slanted upside down and told me to open my mouth. My jaw was still stiff from the day before but I did the best I could. Another needle. She started to put the rubber dam in again and I had it with politeness and happy thoughts.
“It hurts.” I said. Gurbledy gurp.
“It’s not too bad?” She asked.
“No, it hurts!” I said. Gurbledy gurp. “I don’t think I’m frozen yet.”
Another needle.
“I’ll put it in first, then adjust it.” She said.
I glared at her, and then the ceiling. And I made pained noises at every single tooth she touched. She went out and left me for a while to let the freezing take effect. I sat there alone for what seemed an eternity. This is not fun. I hate the dentist. I could see my reflection in a mirror in the corner of the room and my face looked like a garish skeleton with a rubber mouth and large tacky sunglasses. How would you feel, Miss hygienist, if someone stuck a rubber dam in your mouth?
The dentist came in and started doing the filling. My neck was cramping and I tried to move a bit. He hit a nerve root and I moaned.
That filling done, the hygienist took out the rubber dam.
“I’m going to put Dura-seal on your teeth next.” She told me. “Try not to touch it.”
She told me to open my mouth wider and she painted something on my teeth and started drying it with cold air. Cold air, just like cold water, causes excruciating pain on the tooth roots, I don’t know why she didn’t know that, but I let her know with loud, pained moans.
“What’s wrong?” She asked.
“It hurts a lot!” I said. Gurbedly gurp.
“Oh, I’m just putting air on them to dry it.” She said.
“I know you are,” I said, “But it is extremely painful.” Gurble gurp gurble.
My sense of humor had evaporated with my sense of longsuffering. The Dura-seal seemed to take forever.
And then the dentist came back in and froze my mouth again. And I kid you not, the hygienist put in ANOTHER rubber dam.
I pushed her away.
“I need more freezing.” I told her.
“The Dr. just gave you some.” She said.
“I know, but I can feel everything. I need some more.”
He put in another syringe-full of novocaine and then the rubber dam went in. This time I think the freezing went right to my head. I began to get dozy. Or maybe it was the whirring sound. Or maybe slanted upside down, all the blood was rushing to my head and I was passing out.
I awoke from garbled and confusing dreams to find the hygienist snapping the rubber dam out. I was in too much of a stupor to care and the dentist wiped the drool and blood off my face. He inserted a piece of blue paper in my mouth (to check tooth surfaces) and told me to bite down. I did.
“Grind from side to side.” He told me.
I did. He took the paper out.
“Hmmm…. Try again.”
I bit down, and ground side to side as hard as I could. He removed the paper again and looked puzzled.
“Dr.,” the hygienist said, “I think she was biting her tongue, not the paper.”
Yes, I must have been biting that thick numb thing that didn’t belong in my mouth.
They ground some more and painted and then the hygienist told me I could go but I felt unsteady on my feet after so many hours lying upside down. I went out the door and I couldn’t even say thank you or goodbye.
The freezing has all come out now, and I’m wondering which quadrant of my mouth hurts the most. Or maybe my tongue. Or maybe my neck, it’s hard to tell. I wonder why it costs so much to spend several hours being tortured by a smiling person in a white coat. I wonder if it would be better just to get dentures. Then I could greet people at the door with them sideways in my mouth. Or I could take them out at night, pop them into a glass by my bed, roll over and say to my honey, “Sweet dweams, deaw” and smile with a lovely toothless smile. Yes, I might just ask them to pull them all out.

Meditations on Matthew

This winter when I was in Champaign I read a book that touched me so deeply, bringing together in my soul questions that I had hardly dared ask aloud. It was a book called 'Things Unseen', written by a Vancouverite named Mark Buchanan, and the chapter that stuck with me the most and had me thinking this week is about Jesus and John the Baptist.
The story in Matthew goes like this: John the Baptist, the incredible prophet who understood who Jesus really was more than anyone else ('the greatest of these was John'), was languishing in prison, an imprisonment that would eventually culminate in his death. He sent his disciples to ask Jesus, "Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect another?"
Jesus answered back by detailing all the miracles he had performed- the lame were walking, the blind were seeing, the dead were raised... but then at the end of it, he spoke a cryptic sentence that pierced to the heart of John's question.
"Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me."
I've read that verse before but skipped over it because I didn't really understand it's significance. But the author of this book gives it his interpretation.
Here was John in prison, surely he didn't need to be educated on the miracles Jesus was doing. Of course we all know about them. Have you heard about people being healed of cancer in Africa? Have you heard of the revivals in South America where the dead are being raised? Have you heard the stories of those who were miraculously given jobs when they prayed, whose cars kept going when they should've died, whose mothers got saved on their deathbeds?
So then why is our friend Kathy, who has a 6-year-old son, why is she suffering from breast cancer? So then why is my sister Hannah still disabled? Why am I still praying for friends to become christians when I am seeing their lives fall apart over and over again? If Christ can do those miracles, why isn't he doing them for me? Why wasn't Jesus doing something for John, the great prophet, while he rotted in prison? Why hasn't Jesus done something for me?
"Blessed is the man who doesn't fall away on account of the One who does all this for others, but who sometimes leaves you- you!- in your prison, with death just outside the door."
"The answer must be", the author says, "that those who never see, never touch, are being forced by a divine austerity, by a God who remains elusive, to grasp the substance of faith..... Jesus calls miracles 'signs'. The writer of Hebrews calls them 'shadows'. Miracles are meant to point to something bigger, more real, more alive, than themselves.... they are fingerprints of God, a clue to his presence, but they are not His hand."
"Blessed are those who don't need the sign, the shadow..... they have not fallen away on account of Jesus. They have grasped that a relationship with Jesus is different from a bargain or a contract with Him... they have understood that a miracle is as much a veil as a shrine, that it conceals God as much as it discloses Him, that it can become not the 'sign' that points to God, but the diversion that keeps us from Him."
And I believe Jesus is saying the same question to us today. Are you going to fall away (to become 'scandalized') because you have heard of God's miracles- and yet never seen them in your own life? When your deepest prayers remain unanswered and your most painful wounds are struck again and again, are you going to fall away from God on account of One who does something like this? Or are you going to embrace his invitation to believe in him- not in spite of his lack of miracles- but because he does not exist to satisfy us with his mere fingerprints- but rather the very substance of himself?
Blessed are you if you do not fall away on account of Jesus Christ.

Happy Heather's soap opera

I have now been blogging for 2.5 years, at least once a week. My blogs have changed considerably over time: in the beginning I wrote pithy little pieces about scientific facts and theological ideas. Gradually my blogs have become more and more like diary entries, and more and more personal. Sometimes I feel like I am just talking to myself and I have no idea who might be reading it; other times I am extremely careful with each word because I imagine who might be reading it. Once in a while I bump into someone who mentions something I wrote in a blog and I feel startled that they know such intimate details about my life.
But there are a couple of areas of my life that I have never written about in my blog entries. Never ever, and for very good reason. It is because they are too personal. After all, it’s one thing to make people laugh about my adventures cutting up cadavers or nursing patients or selling teapots, but it’s quite another thing to share with the world how I feel about having my heart broken by a guy or how much I’ve agonized about my decisions with school or those days when I feel like life is crashing all around me and I’m a horrible person. But they happen, and they happen to everyone. Not only that, but I know my friends and family care, and I know that to the degree I am vulnerable, they are encouraged.
Of course some people can read between the lines. Perhaps you might have guessed that something is going on between me and someone named Robin Mercer living in Kelowna. My sister, who is my fashion consultant and my advisor on social graces and appropriate behavior, has counseled me that I should stop introducing him as my friend because after all, we’re in love.
I met Robin 6 years ago in Calgary at a conference where it snowed buckets, and we ended up eating pizza in a hotel room with friends and family in the middle of the night. The first moment I saw him I felt like he would one day be my husband. Yet we’ve taken a long and tortuous path to get to each other. Last summer I was sitting with my friend Yvette, crying my eyes out because my heart had been broken by yet another man. I told her, “I’ll never fall in love again”. She said, “Heather, there’s plenty other men out there who would be lucky to have you”. “There was only one other guy I was interested in” I told her, “and that’s Robin Mercer, but I’ve totally lost touch with him”.
“Robin?” She replied. “He was at our house for dinner this week.”
So we started out as facebook friends, oddly enough. Last summer we lay in a parking lot and watched shooting stars and he held my hand and I thought perhaps I’m crazy to be falling for him, I don’t know if I can handle having my heart broken again.
Except he hasn’t broken my heart. He is kind of quiet, which is nice, because we don’t have to compete for space to talk, and he is tall, which is good because I fit under his arm perfectly when we walk together. He tells me I am beautiful when I feel I am not and he is very clever and knows most of my interesting facts before I tell them, but he listens anyway, and doesn’t mind hearing them again.
We’ve spent most of our time apart the last several months, but I am moving his way soon and even though I grew up in Vancouver and almost everything I love is here, in a way going to Kelowna is a kind of coming home too. Last summer as I prayed about my future I begged God to give me someone to share my adventures with. I stood on a street corner near my house and as I watched, several planes flew past with their landing gear down, towards Vancouver airport. In my heart the Lord’s still voice spoke. I have more solitary adventures for you, Heather.
Last fall in Antigua and this past winter in Champaign, I truly understood feeling alone; feeling invisible in a room full of people, feeling abandoned in a quiet room all by myself day after day. My own thoughts echoing in my head and making me feel like I was going crazy. I have to admit my blog entries were much more chipper than I was feeling. Who wants to read about me whining, anyway?
But I also learned what it is to be quiet with God, and to know he is there even though you cannot feel him, and to trust in his love when it doesn’t feel loving.
My plans for my life have been dismantled, little by little, but it is okay, I have the feeling deep inside that the adventures God has planned for me are far more exciting than the adventures Heather Davies had planned. And best of all I have the company of someone dear to share them with.
So there, I’ve broken my rule and told you about my love life. Perhaps you’ll stop reading now, which would be too bad, because I have an interesting potential job in Kelowna which should supply hullabaloo-like fodder, and who knows, I might end up working in the hospital or doing all manner of things that turn out more unusual than expected. At any rate I hope to greet those adventures with a smile on my face and a laugh from deep within.

To sell a teapot

I was working at Surplus Sam’s the other day and I was having a great time. Because one of the full-time cashiers left, Austin asked me to work upstairs as a cashier and doing customer service, something I was more than happy to do. I love talking to people and helping them, and I discovered something else: I love selling them things.
Honestly I can sell stuff at Surplus Sam’s in good conscience: I truly believe that the prices are good, and the store carries merchandise that is one-of-a-kind and would be hard to find elsewhere. Something for everyone, I tell them.
My remarkable sales of the day included convincing a lady to buy a broken hammock because it was a good deal and easy to fix; and convincing an old man to buy 50 yards of white leather so he could upholster all his furniture to match another chair we were selling.
But the last sale of the day was the best. I had been sorting through a showcase and found a teapot and sugar bowl set hiding behind some other dishes. Jonny and I had moved furniture around that day and put a stone table in the middle of the room. I put the teapot and sugar bowl on the table along with some other sets of plates and cups. It was a lovely teapot; a gold handle and lid, with bright blue and orange and yellow patterns of an ocean scene. The sugar bowl was a little different but also beautiful (albeit in a garish sort of way). It was an expensive set, too: the price on the bottom of the bowl was $93.74. Who on earth pays that much for a teapot, anyway?
A slimy sort of guy came in just before closing and was trying to convince me to buy loose leaf tea from him. I was behind the counter and his eyes lit on the teapot.
“How much is that?” he asked.
“It’s $93.00 for the set.” I told him. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Ninety three dollars!!!!” he exclaimed. “What’s it made out of, gold?”
I talked up the teapot for awhile and he carried it over to where I was at the counter and was looking at it.
“I don’t want the sugar bowl.” He said. “Can’t I buy just the teapot?”
I considered it for a moment. I knew we weren’t really supposed to split up sets, but the sugar bowl did look kind of different, and after all, I was sure I could sell it.
“Okay.” I finally agreed. “I’ll sell it to you for 2/3 the price…. Which is a pretty good deal. $61.00 plus tax.”
He opened the lid and saw there was a little chip in the rim.
“It’s damaged! Can’t I have it cheaper?”
I hadn’t noticed the chip and probably would’ve already discounted it further if I had…
“No, that’s already a pretty good deal.” I told him. “Look at what an amazing teapot it is! You can probably get matching cups off of ebay.”
I tried to convince him a bit longer but he finally put it down.
“I don’t want it.”
Another man came in and the two of them started looking at cameras in the display case where I was. I turned to the second man.
“Yes, that camera is a pretty good deal. But what you really need is this teapot. Take a look at it. The shape, the bright blue and the gold. Tell me, where would you find another teapot like that? It’s one of a kind. I myself was thinking of buying it today. What, with my staff discount, it’s a pretty decent price. Someone’s going to snap this one up real soon.”
He started to laugh.
“So, if I get that teapot, will it make me more popular with the ladies?”
“Well,” I said, “ I’m already taken, but if I wasn’t, and you had that teapot, I’d definitely go after you.”
The first guy picked the teapot up again.
“All right, I’ll buy it.”
I gloated as I rang up his sale. I gloated as I wrapped it up for him and he went out the door $68.00 poorer. I gloated as I closed up for the day.
Seriously, what an amazing sales woman! I sold a garish teapot for $68! And I still had the sugar bowl to mark up and sell the next day!
It was probably because of my exceptional talking abilities, my extraordinary communication skills, my way with people, my knack for seeing what things were worth and just what people needed and wanted. I smiled all the way home and as I recounted the story to my sister.
The next morning I came into Surplus Sam’s.
“Where’s that little sugar bowl I put here?” I asked Austin. “I sold the teapot yesterday and I’m going to price it separately.”
“Oh, the blue teapot?” He asked. “Heather, that wasn’t a set.”
“It wasn’t?” I asked.
“No, they don’t go together. They are both Versace pieces and they’re really expensive. The sugar bowl is $93.74 by itself.”
I suddenly felt as if the giant balloon that was my ego had been deflated.
“How much was the teapot?” I asked in a small voice.
“We’d marked it down to $270.00 because it had a chip in it. The original price was way more.”
“You’re kidding me.” I said. “The teapot was HOW much?”
And suddenly I didn’t feel like the world’s best saleswoman anymore. I had just sold a $270.00 Versace teapot for $68.00. And that man had walked out of the store and I had thought I was something special but actually he was the one who had got the good deal that day. I felt like I had been stung. Perhaps I should donate the next 3 days of labor to Surplus Sam’s. Perhaps Austin would want to fire me. Perhaps I should offer to forgo my lunch breaks for the next week.
And so I learned an important lesson that I should’ve learned before. It seems that it is a repeat lesson, one that takes the shape of a broken-down Volvo and a Versace teapot and I suppose whatever other object God would like to use to teach me the lesson. Pride goes before a fall, and the more I allow my pride to get inflated, the bigger the fall is going to be. Pride is expensive, I have been told.

The silver bullet rides again

After my last success playing the mechanic, I felt confidence oozing out of my pores and decided to brave the 4 hour journey from Vancouver to Kelowna in the 'silver bullet'.
"Your car doesn't have an e-brake?" Miriam asked dubiously when we planned our trip.
"No worries," I told her, "Brakes failing only happens in the movies."
Little did I know the drama that awaited us.
Miriam and I left on friday in my old Volvo, and we took turns driving and listening to music all the way to Hope. We stopped in Hope to go pee and buy coke and then hit the road again, Miriam driving. We were chattering away in French and everything was going fine until about 20 minutes outside of Merritt while snaking up the big hill, Miriam suddenly exclaimed, "The car is smoking!"
"Pull over!"
She pulled over onto the narrow shoulder and just before she shut the engine off I saw the thermostat needle all the way up. I popped the trunk and billows of smoke came out. Great. I couldn't see where the smoke was coming from but after it cooled a bit I called my Dad on my cellphone and described the situation to him.
"You're probably out of coolant." He suggested. "Wait til the engine cools down and then put a couple of water bottles in."
I remembered filling the coolant last week (yes, with water instead of antifreeze) and seeing the liquid disappear down inside. Perhaps it was lower than I had thought.
We used up all our water in the engine and I contemplated pouring my coke in, but the coolant reservoir still wasn't full. AFter 15 minutes I started driving again, babying the car up the long slow hill. Within five minutes the needle popped up to the danger zone again and I had to pull over.
"Maybe we should flag someone down and ask for water." I suggested.
We popped the hood and stood behind the car waving our arms. Within 3 minutes a truck pulled up behind us and an older man got out.
"What's the problem?"
He fortuitously had 4 liters of windshield wiper fluid in his truck and he came around and poured it into the engine for me.
"Uh oh." I suddenly noticed a puddle beginning under the car. "It's leaking right through."
"It looks like your water pump is cracked."
Suddenly a cop car pulled up behind the truck and a police officer got out and came towards us.
"Is everything okay?"
"My water pump is gone." I said morosely. "I think we'll have to get it towed to Merritt."
A third truck pulled up in front of us and a man got out and started talking to the police officer.
"Oh, so you finally caught up with him, did you?"
The two men started arguing. "You almost killed me!"
"Get back to your cars!" The police officer was saying "Both of you! Get inside!"
Miriam and I looked at each other. Maybe we should get back in our car too. We climbed in and watched the police officer talking to the two men separately with his ticket book out and meanwhile we called BCAA, thanks to Miriam's membership card. The tow truck would be there within an hour. It would be a free tow to Merritt, or $300.00 to Kelowna. Friday night. What were the chances of getting a water pump installed at this late hour? We would have to stay over in Merritt. We had only planned a two-day weekend anyway- as soon as the car was fixed we might as well just drive home to Vancouver. I felt like crying.
I sent a text message to Robin Mercer telling him we were going to be late and then he called back.
"We're getting towed." I said, depressed. "We'll probably have to stay in Merritt overnight."
"No you won't," He said, "I'll come and get you."
Now this was turning into an adventure.
The two men had driven off and the police officer came back to the truck.
"Sorry about that." He apologized. "My bad luck to have to deal with that. Are you going to be all right?"
We assured him we were fine, even though we were a bit confused as to what had happened. We sat in the car and talked and read for the next hour.
When the tow truck showed up I jumped out and ran to meet the driver.
"Boy, are we glad you're here!"
"Don't you recognize me?" He asked. "This is the second time I've been here today."
I suddenly realized he was the second man who had stopped for us that day.
He winched the silver bullet onto the back of his truck and then while we sat in the cab on the way to Merritt he explained everything. He had been driving home when the first man had cut in front of him and nearly made him have an accident. He had called 911 to report his dangerous driving. The first man had stopped to help the two damsels in distress, as had the police officer, as had the second man, and it was just the luck of the draw that they all happened to recognize each other on the side of the highway. The tow truck driver had driven back into Merritt and then got the call to go pick up an '87 Volvo and he had laughed cause he had just been with us.
Well, he dropped our car off at an auto shop that would fix it the next day, and then he drove us across town to the Starbucks to wait for Robin. Miriam and I both had cards that had been given to us and we sat and drank tea until Robin came to get us in his Toyota Tercel.
By the time we got to Kelowna it was late (we both forgot the way back to our car) but we stayed up anyway for a few more hours.
All in all we had a wonderful weekend, although slightly dampened by the fact that Miriam had to take the greyhound home on sunday, since I was obligated to stay and wait until my car was fixed. Apparently there were no water pumps in Merritt and they had to order one in and in the end it was my most expensive trip to Kelowna ever.
But educational, yes. I learned all about leaking water pumps and why you should always make sure that when you fill the coolant reservoir, whether with water, antifreeze, or wiper fluid, you actually fill it, and don't just pour it out onto the pavement like I must have done the week before. I discovered how romantic it is to be rescued by a handsome young man in a green Tercel (who said anything about a white horse, anyway?) And I finally followed my Dad's lifelong advice, and yes, before I left Kelowna, I purchased a year's membership with BCAA.