The Breaking Point

Apparently, I have a thing for writing a blog on Wednesday and then continuing with the same subject on Friday, because here I go again.

Back to the dentist thing. You know what I realized? 99% of the time, I detest going to the dentist. I mean, yeah, I get my teeth cleaned regularly, and if I need other work, I get it done because—well, that’s just what you do if you want to keep your teeth.

But last week, I was willing to do anything to get into a dentist’s chair, positively begging to have them stick that needle in my gums and get me good and numb. Because suddenly I needed that guy. Bad. And when you have a need like that, you find yourself looking at life from a different perspective. You do and think things you wouldn’t normally do and think.

Thus, I scratched off everything else on my schedule in order to devote my week to dental consultations and treatments, and then recovery. And you guys, I’m usually a pretty frugal person, so it pains me to admit that I didn’t care how much that specialist wanted to charge. (Later, I’d have probably been ticked if it were worse than it actually was, but not that particular day.) More like, “Do you take Visa?”

Such an aberration for me. And the difference is, of course, pain.

So. Now we know I’m a wimp (ahem, quit laughing). I’ve discovered my limit, the threshold at which I crack. Everyone has one, including and especially fictional characters. And we don’t always know where that threshold lies until we cross it.

But I did learn from the experience. I won’t share here because it would be a boring info dump, so just trust me. I learned stuff.

Where is your threshold? And once you reach that limit, what would you be willing to do to back up, cross over, or just stop the madness altogether? If you’re a writer, do you know your main character’s breaking point? And more importantly, even as you’re throwing rocks at them, what will you do to save them from demise? Will you? Can you? Should you?

Different than I Expected

*Contrary to how the first paragraph may appear, this is not going to be a post of complaint, I promise.

Last week, I had the toothache from hell. No, really. Like, fire and brimstone heat I could feel beating like a heartbeat in one tiny spot in my mouth, and up into my head. So I went to my dentist, because I just knew he could fix this awful pain.

I mean, he’s my dentist. Teeth are his thing. And we go to him because he’s good. But within minutes of relaxing back into the chair (practically begging him to do a root canal or whatever), he shook his head, “I’m going to refer you to an endodontist who is better qualified to treat this problem.”

Wait. What? Back up the truck. You’re sending me where? And more importantly, it means I have to make it through another night of pain? Okay, so in his defense, he gave me some meds and an antibiotic, and encouraged me to tell the staff at the other office how bad it hurt so they’d rush me in. But still. I wasn’t feeling so happy just then.

That night, I actually dreamed I DIED of an infected tooth.

Two appointments (and days) later, I dragged my shaky self to the specialists office, where I was shocked and amazed. They lay me back in the cushiest dentist’s chair ever, with butter-soft leather and a neck pillow at just the right height, and offered me an iPod with sound eliminating headphones, numbed me up, and then…

I took a sort-of nap (a real one, not the drug-induced kind). Then I was done.

That was it? All it took to fix something that had felt like such a huge, daunting problem? A freaking nap? (Well, and lots of money, but we won’t go there.)

And yes, it’s fixed. I was told that I could expect to be pretty sore for the next two weeks, that my pain might get worse before it gets better and blah blah blah. Truth: it’s better. So. Much. Better. Still a little sore, but not as bad as I expected.

Because even though my dentist is good, he knew I needed to see someone else for that one particular problem, and he wanted me to have the best care possible.

How often do we do that in life? We do something expecting it to turn out one way, but then it doesn’t. We complain and moan, and whine a bit, and then are shocked and amazed when we discover that we are now much better off than we would’ve been had things happened our way in the first place. Yep. That’s me this week.

And I can’t tell you how glad I am. Is it just me, or does stuff like this happen to you often too?

Secret Recipe

By Nichole Giles

I burned the lasagna.

That’s okay, I told myself. My family can eat that one, and I’ll make another one for the Browns.

But it wasn’t okay, not really. Nothing was okay in my world that day. With a heavy heart I got out the ingredients I would need, and started putting another casserole together. The noodles broke, the sauce was runny, and I would barely have enough cheese.

My husband, Gary, put his arms around me and said, “Honey, what is the matter with you?”
He couldn’t understand. I guess I didn’t either.

Gary’s mother, Carol, a woman who for ten years I loved as my own, had passed away less than a week before. Yesterday we held her funeral, and my little children watched as their grandmother’s body was laid to rest. Today a family in our ward suffered a similar loss, and I needed to bring them dinner.

Since I had also burned the garlic bread, I decided to run to a nearby Italian restaurant and buy some breadsticks. My heart raced as the minutes ticked by. Lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, onions…what else should I put in the salad? I tossed it, dumped it in my best Tupperware, and loaded it in my car with the uncooked lasagna. By five thirty, I was pulling into my neighbor’s driveway with a full meal—completely unexpected.

In my anguish for our loss and theirs, I had forgotten to announce my intentions. I stood on the driveway with tears rolling down my cheeks and asked the Lord why I was feeling such opposition in what should have been a simple task.

My legs propelled me to the wood front door with my offering, though I had no idea what I would say to the grieving people inside.

The young sister Brown opened the door, her red-rimmed eyes wide with surprise. “Hello, Sister Giles,” she said.

I cleared my clogged throat. “I brought dinner,” was all I was able to get out.

“Thanks,” she said. Her voice was clogged too. Although her embrace was warm, neither of us was able to say more. I gave her instructions for baking the food and left the family to their grief. A wave of relief rolled over me as I got back in my car. I knew my Heavenly Father approved.

I had to bring them dinner. No one had called asking for my help, I had no assignment or calling giving me a responsibility to help the Brown family, but something inside me insisted that I make sure the young family had what they needed that day. My grief was lessened, and my heart lightened. The loneliness I felt for Carol was soothed because my soul desired to serve someone else. The spirit had whispered to me a secret recipe for soothing my own heartache.

I later learned that the young woman, into whose arms I had placed uncooked lasagna, had felt forgotten. Other members of her family who lived in the ward had received food and many condolences, but the Brown family had unknowingly been overlooked. Even in my time of sadness, the Lord sent me to brighten someone else’s dark day.

I have never forgotten the peace I received for bringing a simple meal to a grieving family even as my own family suffered. That peace stays with me each time I give the gift of service. The truest, and most precious of gifts.