Right on schedule, our daughter’s wisdom teeth were removed last week. All four of them.
According to the origin of this right of passage (for some of us), wisdom teeth removal marks the official entry of adulthood. She’s 25. That tracks. She’s an adult.
I had the wisdom not to tell our daughter that tidbit of trivia when she arrived home post-surgery, with a mouth stuffed with gauze, loopy and sleepy from anaesthetic, and the pain starting to settle in. Her discomfort rightly brought about a new side of her.
Basically, my sweet girl transformed into a hostile, full-cheek chipmunk with few words but a glare that could slice through your soul if you asked her one more time if she needed anything, or worse, implored her to sip soup broth. That look? Hostile chipmunk? Yep, she’s an adult now.
I also knew better than to tell her that I had my wisdom teeth removed a millennia ago and barely remember it. But the truth is, looking at her swollen face brought back the phantom thumping of my gums, drawing my hand to gently check on my jowls, a reflective action of that memory. She wouldn’t care about long-in-the-tooth, back-in-the-day stories of yesteryear with dial-up internet. Dinosaur. She has the wisdom to know your previous life is not fodder for her present circumstance. Alright then, moving on.
To make matters more interesting, our girl was coming off a head cold, a full sinus congestion case that took her out of work for a few days, which now meant, her next pay cheque was going to take a serious hit. As someone who pays her own bills, the reality of adulting was another throbbing pain.
With the dental surgery date rapidly approaching, we had to get her well enough to have the surgery. Eeks. All hail the nasal salt-water rinse. Gross, but effective.
She also learned the reality of sick days at work. The damned-if-you-do call in sick and damned-if-you-do go in to work with a head cold. Either way, you’re letting people down by trying to do the right thing, and true to her nature, she wants to do the right thing. But self care comes at a cost. Wisdom earned.
To say this young woman is tough is an understatement and I don’t know who is more surprised by her grit, me or her. But I can say the hostile chipmunk found her humour in the depths of the misery with a wit and sarcasm that is a tribute to her character. She learned you hold on through the pain, take the medicine, sip the soup (when you’re ready) and give your body the gift of rest, fully and completely, so you can heal. And you only send selfies of your hostile chipmunk cheeks to those friends who will laugh with you, knowing full well you cannot laugh yourself.
Thanks to Grandma Waterhouse for the bulk shipment of applesauce and protein drinks and to the friends who checked in. Also, the Canadian Dental Care Plan for making this financially possible.
Eventually the hostile chipmunk became the grateful patient who carefully enjoyed giggle fits and soft smiles. Because this too shall pass. That’s wisdom in itself.
But the Hostile Chipmunk moniker is going to stick.
