cut it out

Three weeks ago, I had oral surgery to remove wisdom teeth, an osteoma in my gum, and tori. I'm glad I was anesthetized. I am also incredibly grateful to my family and friends who have been so supportive and loving as I recover. Their prayers, laughter (especially at my expense from time to time!), quest for soft foods that taste good, and other acts of love, big and small, have touched me deeply. The occasional slurred speech and lisp, the continued numbness, the never-ending smoothies, the stitches still flopping around all get frustrating at times. I just want to eat something! And yet, I find myself grateful, too, for the entire experience.

This was my first surgery, ever; although it was my third experience with anesthesia. It was my second experience with strong pain meds, and the first time I prayed in thanksgiving consistently with each wave of pain. Seriously.

For reasons I can't get into right now because of the firestorm that would result, I had walled myself up and stopped feeling for a while. The pain in my mouth and jaw mirrored the feeling I have begun to allow my heart and soul lately. Sometimes a dull ache, and other times out and out pain; the burning of a nerve irritated by a clot and swelling, the mushy feeling of a lip, all are reminders that I am, indeed, alive and well, through and through. There are plenty of times I don't like it -- feeling, I mean. It's far easier to feel nothing, to ignore pain, anger, frustration. But to feel nothing is to not live fully. Without feeling there is also no room for love, forgiveness, joy, compassion. The numbness in my lip and chin makes for some crazy images in my own mind of how I must look: misshapen, unattractive, unlovable. Similar are the aural images I perceive. And yet, I look in the mirror, and listen again, or talk with those who have been with me over the past three weeks, and we agree: If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. It's my own perception, and what I allow myself to believe, to see, to hear.

Each day I thank God for the newness of the day, be it one more millimeter of feeling returned to my skin, gums, tongue, or the fact that everything feels just a little worse. I'm feeling. Whether I like it or not is not the point at all -- I asked to be able to feel again, in my heart and soul, but He knows I like metaphors. I picture Him smiling as He sits beside me, listening to my slurred and lispy prayer, trying not to touch the nerve that screams (softer now than a week ago, but still) at the slightest provocation. He smiles not because He's happy that it hurts, but because I am sitting with Him. I am asking Him to be with me, to feel with me, to be in my heart and in my jaw.

The irritation of the nerve is temporary, as is the soft diet: nine and about two months, respectively. Before the surgery, the doctor warned me about the nerve thing, saying that if it happened, it could be anywhere from a few weeks to permanent. There are times when I think that permanent is an easier thing to deal with, because then it is what it is, rather than frequent assessment (still there? Yep. gah.) Other times I can only think about the here and now -- namely the stitches that are loosening up and taking their own sweet time to fall out. Either way I am living and praying the moment.

And very grateful.