Breakages day

Yesterday was breakages day. Thirteen may or may not be unlucky, depending on your particular viewpoint, so I won’t dwell on how 23rd August was 13 days out from my Great OE.

The day was meant to focus on gardening. There are 6 gardens still to be dealt with before I leave. Pruning, weeding, mulching and shifting plants takes time, but will set the scene for the coming summer.

The early morning sun was strengthening on my back, but it’s warmth had not yet reached the soil from which my fingers needed to be wrenching out weeds. Breaking off long-deceased dahlia stems with a satisfying snap and crackle was therefore the first task, whilst my mind insisted in wandering off to OE planning.

Realizing I’d not added folding coat-hangers to my purchase list, I popped into the house. One day I’ll learn not to use my teeth to open things. The whiteboard marker lid gleefully took part of a front tooth with it. The mirror showed how every OE selfie would show a raggedly-broken smile.

My dentist is particularly brilliant, which is why she is booked up for months ahead. There was no chance of an appointment within 12 days. I rang anyway.

Receptionists come in many forms, but the one’s who understand my pain are gold. She found a space! With another dentist but who cares?

Actually, I do. When I was a child, my mother gifted me a rare day off school to go to town. The excitement level was right up there; several hours drive away, town offered the adventure of a bought lunch, and shopping.

On this particular day though, at exactly 11am, I found myself unceremoniously ordered by a towering white-coated ogre into the monstrosity that was the dentists chair, surrounded by gleaming torture instruments, and hissing nozzles. My mother went shopping.

Eight teeth were wrenched from my mouth that day. Blood flowed freely. The dentist sweated onto my forehead as he grunted his way through my nightmare.

Mum’s car found every pothole on the way home, jack-hammering through my mouth. I didn’t get lunch.

Decades later I marveled at the painless dental experiences of my own children. Eventually I put my brave boots on and made an appointment. I sweated in the waiting room and wobbled into the dentists surgery. I couldn’t get into the chair. The dentist had warm eyes, listening ears, and gave the impression of having all the time in the world. Eventually we agreed that she would just take x-rays. The chair let me lie on top, free to leave at any time. X-rays done, the dentist gently asked if she could have a look at my teeth. When she brought forth a fine silver hook, my feet crossed each other, my hands clutched the sides of the chair, and I wanted to cry.

That lovely dentist had a quiet look, then announced I was done. There had been no pain, no hissing nozzles, and no blood.

Over the following months all the overdue work was completed, including two extractions which didn’t involve climbing walls or being knocked out. The dentist provided a safe environment, getting me to where I could have annual check-ups. Oh the joy of a visit where she announced ‘nothing to be done!’

But to go to a different dentist? Was I ready? Just how important are smooth teeth for OE selfies? I took the appointment.

What are the odds of a second star dentist? Good apparently. Graham was everything I could have wished for; he’d even read my patient notes! He beautifully restored my smile, ready for travel.

Being in town unexpectedly, I decided to visit my relatively-housebound mother. Ours is a broken relationship. It’s safest for me to phone occasionally, and call in about four times a year. She is my mother and I love her dearly, but experience has taught me to keep a loving distance in order to maintain what we have. There were times of easy friendship, and I choose to protect their memory by not exposing risk.

Yesterday, what a shock. Her house was completely closed up, curtains shut, and a stillness that says all is not well. I pressed the bell, but there was no answering cry. Was she lying on the floor, helpless and afraid? Should I break in?

An out-of-town sister has the responsibility of Mum’s care. A quick call told us both what we wanted to know. Mum had fallen, found on the floor by a carer. My sister hadn’t heard from the hospital, but the fact that Mum wasn’t back home confirmed the likelihood of a broken hip, and so it turned out. Surgery yesterday afternoon, and a long recovery to come.

Broken hips can have life-shortening consequences in the elderly. Do I need to cancel my plans; be here for Mum?

Breakages come in many forms; there’s the healthy break of deceased dahlia stems, the repairable tooth-break, and the agonizing hip break, but the one which sits long-term under our hearts is the break of relationships with folk we love.

I tried to imagine the coming weeks if I was to cancel my OE in favor of looking after my mother, as all good daughters should. Picture taking her flowers, doing her shopping, making sure she was comfortable, and spending hours in her company, listening to her particular version of history and Christianity. I saw the walls closing in, with me reverting from happy energetic grandmother to the little girl who meekly endures whatever my mother chooses to put me through. The resentment nut would inevitably find it’s way back in, damaging what little relationship my mother and I have left.

In twelve days I am leaving on the Great OE. Some things I leave behind may be broken, but they are as intact as they can be, as am I.