This blog comes to mind as I underwent a week away from my 19 year old daughter who is recovering from oral surgery. All four of her wisdom teeth —OUCH—needed to come out. She’s out of college until fall, so she had them done while the ‘pulling’ was good. She lives in upstate New York and I’m living in one of the Carolina’s. She’s maybe 110 pounds wet and could be mistaken for a 14 year old with her hair in ponytail, maybe 16 when she has it down on her shoulders. Her summer job is to pour wine at her local baseball stadium— so she gets plenty of double takes as they request a glass of wine from her. But no matter her age or where she is at, she will always be my little girl, my ‘kiddo’ and I of course hate to see her in any pain…mentally. physically or emotionally.
I talked to her before the surgery happened. I gave her pep talks that it was the right time to do this and in the long run it was a ‘wise’ decision. Her headaches and sinus pressure would be better off without these four ‘wise’ teeth in her mouth. No school and her job understood—it was a no brainer.
She knew her face would swell and she would sustain some pain. I tried to reiterate –it’s all temporary.
As I was telling her how it will all be better soon, be patient and reminded her of ways to relax, I could hear in her voice the acceptance, but also—“ Yeah, yeah Mom” in the background. I’ve had wisdom teeth pulled and knew that it all my advice and words of comfort were true because I had experienced oral surgery, too. I felt I was speaking from The Book of Oral Surgery Woes, justifiably—and could for hours. We aren’t that seasoned, as I like to refer to it, so we could compare it to other moments when we felt a twinge, twisted an ankle, had knee pain. Goodness, she and I could both go on for hours even over our menstrual cramps. We talk for hours over serious and funny topics. We both have opinions to give to each other—never minding the generation hurdles between us. I look forward to sharing more milestones –even painful ones with her. That’s what mothers and daughters do. After talking to her today I was relieved to know she was having quick glimpses of relief, as she tries to reach her 100 %-self.
Just like the relationship with my daughter, my mother and I shared a lot with each other. Still even though she is not with me, there is one pain she inadvertently shared with me.
When her mother, my grandmother, died months away from the age of 90, I experienced a whole new side of my mother. I saw her cry endlessly. I saw her frustrated, out of sorts from time to time, and in general lost. I experienced her good days and bad days. Many days, I heard her say, “Damn, I miss her.”
I never truly understood the agony of her loss — until I lost her.
It is now coming up to the anniversary of my mother’s passing and five years later nonetheless relating to her pain. I know of many in my grief group who are in this same motherless circle and we echo each other’s pain. We never say it will get better, we never offer a “light at the end of the tunnel’ quote to each other—because we are all there. We are all experiencing this intense grief; unmeasurable heartache.
But, there is also a pain my mother never shared with me in her own words, though the words weren’t needed. I watched her pain, instead.
Five years ago to this month, I observed the strongest woman I knew endure physical pain that no human deserved. Morphine was her best friend for a short week before the rest of her body and her organs succumbed to the agonizing pain of bone and breast cancer. I saw her smile leave, her sparkling eyes go glazed, and her humor fade as her sharp wit went dull. I had no words of comfort to share. I never felt that pain and had no right to speak. It was explained to me that she had lesions all the way down her spine. The footprints of cancer had marred her and there was no turning back for a recovery. The doctor said it was headed for her brain next.
All I could do at this time was make her surroundings comfortable. I was there to fix her pillow, change the TV channel, assist her to eat and drink, and of course, let her know when she could release the morphine by a press of the button beside her. In that bed was the woman who always shared her woes of pain with me to compare to mine, but this time she never spoke of what she was feeling. I recall one nurse asking her the level of pain she was feeling from 1 to 10, 10 being the highest level. In my presence, my mom just stared at her and never blinked. The nurse placed her hand on hers and nodded. No nurse asked her pain level again– Her winces and moans of pain are forever etched in my memory. Even though I know how she would have responded, I am glad I was never privy to her number out loud.
When a loved one is hurting, it’s a normal reaction to say, “It will get better.” They will describe their pain and frustration, and we still give our words back to them anticipating they bring some comfort at that moment. I am glad I never gave my mother any advice on the pain of losing her mother. I am glad I never uttered any words to her while she suffered with her brief battle of two cancers.
I struggled this week not being able to help my daughter more than with my words during her recovery from her oral surgery. No words could have taken away my mother’s pain in her last week of life.
I do know that I can impart with my daughter from experience of just observing, the pain that her grandmother withstood at the end of her life, would make her wisdom tooth surgery and recovery seem like a walk in the park.
Sully Said It
sullylivedit 