"What did they do to you?"
My youngest sister, McKenzie, and I get our wisdom teeth pulled within two weeks of each other. She stays at my apartment for a few days and drives me around after I get mine out, and then I meet her at our parents’ house a week later.
The morning of her appointment, we repeatedly tell our mother that we are going to the dentist in Omaha, but she doesn’t understand.
“Do you want to come along?” I ask for the third time. “It’s going to be boring in the waiting room, but you are welcome to if you want.”
“No, you go. Have fun shopping,” she replies. Her voice rings with regret for being left behind, but her self-consciousness prevents her from inviting herself on what she believes is a girls’ day out.
“Well, it’s not going to be fun. McKenzie won’t be the same for days.”
I can’t stop myself from snickering at my sister’s expense. She is getting nervous, especially after seeing my cheeks swell like a chipmunk’s a week earlier. I tell her that getting the shots is the only painful part, and the rest is just sound effects as they yank the teeth loose. Every time I say this, she turns a new shade of pale.
My mother pats McKenzie on the shoulder as we lumber out the door. “Do you need some money?”
My sister replies one more time through thinned lips, “We’re not going shopping.”
***
Before leaving Omaha two hours later, we pick up a few chocolate shakes for McKenzie to eat when we to the house. These sit on her lap during the thirty-minute ride back as blood pools in her mouth. She listens to me have a one-sided conversation; I poke fun at her inability to reply to any of my jokes (in much the same way she teased at me a few weeks earlier). She doesn’t experience any pain, mostly because she can’t feel her jaw. Her bottom lip sticks out an inch, causing tiny strings of drool at the corners. She dabs at these with a napkin every few miles and pushes in her lip with her finger. We both chuckle at this, and I try to think up as many lame remarks as possible about how well she is carrying the conversation.
Our return surprises my mother. She asks if we got anything nice when she spots the cardboard cup holder filled with blended ice cream in my hand. I repeat our reason for the trip one more time.
McKenzie sits down at the dining room table and grabs a shake. As soon as she draws the first spoonful of ice ream, blood--that had been pooling in her mouth during the forty-five minute car ride—spews out. In an instant, it spatters her shirt and splashes across the table.
Growing up, my sisters and I all had somewhat-lengthy hospital stays, and each time, our mother stayed with us and did what she could to make us feel better. She hated the sight of blood, but when it appeared on her daughters, she would take appropriate steps to disinfect wounds and bandage them properly. Now, as blood spills from McKenzie, she panics.
“What did they do to you?” she cries as I pull my sister to the kitchen sink.
“She got her teeth pulled, Mom. She’ll be fine; she just can’t feel her lower face.”
McKenzie pulls saturated cotton pads from the back of her mouth. “I ‘hange 'fees,” she sputters while pointing to an envelope of new pads on the counter. I hand her a few, and she wets them before shoving them in place.
“I don’t think you should get them wet,” I say, concerned that they won’t work.
“’Hey say foo,” she replies as her hand tries to navigate the numbness.
My mother stands on the other side of the sink. Her eyes are alarmingly round—perhaps not from the unknown, but the fear of helplessness.
I am trying to gage my mother’s reaction when McKenzie starts gasping for air. She makes a faint gurgling sound and heaves her shoulders in silent coughs. As she leans over the sink, I hit her once on the back. Though I know that slapping a choking person on the back is not a good idea, in that split-second, it was the only thing I can think to do.
She vomits out the pads, more blood, and the remnants of breakfast.
“Oh! Oh! What did they do to you?” my mother repeats on the brink of tears. She holds her hands to her mouth, too afraid to even touch McKenzie. “What did they do?” she whispers.
“Mom, I need you to go get an old towel and bring it here.”
She does not move except to blink.
I tailor my tone to mimic the one she used on us when we were kids, “Get a towel from the hall over there. We need your help.”
She seems mesmerized by the image of McKenzie, still bent over the sink, and me, holding her hair. Backing toward the hallway, she keeps her eyes on my sister as long as she can, almost as if something worse will happen when she’s not looking.
I talk McKenzie into trying dry pads by the time my mother returns with an old blue towel.
After the cotton squares get properly situated, we move the operation downstairs. My mother and I drape the towel over some pillows and make my sister lie down on the couch.
“What did they do to her,” my mother repeats after McKenzie is settled and asleep.
“She’ll be okay,” I reassure her, though I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Why don’t you stay down here with her, to make sure things are okay.”
My mother moves her attention to me. She swallows and asks, “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.” Taking a deep breath, I try to sound confident. “You will be just fine down here. You are her mother; she needs you to watch TV with her, just like you always have.”
As I escape up the stairs, my mother perches on the couch opposite my sister, staring at her sleeping daughter as if her life depends on it. Though McKenzie will only stay on the couch for a few hours, my mother will be vigilant and follow her around. She will even watch from the window the next day as McKenzie mows the yard.
Over the following year, we will laugh about this, as well as McKenzie's sentence of soft foods for two weeks while the rest of the family taunted her with more appetizing dishes.
Our mother probably has no recollection of any of those days, but I will remember it as a time she re-experiences her role of mother.
The morning of her appointment, we repeatedly tell our mother that we are going to the dentist in Omaha, but she doesn’t understand.
“Do you want to come along?” I ask for the third time. “It’s going to be boring in the waiting room, but you are welcome to if you want.”
“No, you go. Have fun shopping,” she replies. Her voice rings with regret for being left behind, but her self-consciousness prevents her from inviting herself on what she believes is a girls’ day out.
“Well, it’s not going to be fun. McKenzie won’t be the same for days.”
I can’t stop myself from snickering at my sister’s expense. She is getting nervous, especially after seeing my cheeks swell like a chipmunk’s a week earlier. I tell her that getting the shots is the only painful part, and the rest is just sound effects as they yank the teeth loose. Every time I say this, she turns a new shade of pale.
My mother pats McKenzie on the shoulder as we lumber out the door. “Do you need some money?”
My sister replies one more time through thinned lips, “We’re not going shopping.”
***
Before leaving Omaha two hours later, we pick up a few chocolate shakes for McKenzie to eat when we to the house. These sit on her lap during the thirty-minute ride back as blood pools in her mouth. She listens to me have a one-sided conversation; I poke fun at her inability to reply to any of my jokes (in much the same way she teased at me a few weeks earlier). She doesn’t experience any pain, mostly because she can’t feel her jaw. Her bottom lip sticks out an inch, causing tiny strings of drool at the corners. She dabs at these with a napkin every few miles and pushes in her lip with her finger. We both chuckle at this, and I try to think up as many lame remarks as possible about how well she is carrying the conversation.
Our return surprises my mother. She asks if we got anything nice when she spots the cardboard cup holder filled with blended ice cream in my hand. I repeat our reason for the trip one more time.
McKenzie sits down at the dining room table and grabs a shake. As soon as she draws the first spoonful of ice ream, blood--that had been pooling in her mouth during the forty-five minute car ride—spews out. In an instant, it spatters her shirt and splashes across the table.
Growing up, my sisters and I all had somewhat-lengthy hospital stays, and each time, our mother stayed with us and did what she could to make us feel better. She hated the sight of blood, but when it appeared on her daughters, she would take appropriate steps to disinfect wounds and bandage them properly. Now, as blood spills from McKenzie, she panics.
“What did they do to you?” she cries as I pull my sister to the kitchen sink.
“She got her teeth pulled, Mom. She’ll be fine; she just can’t feel her lower face.”
McKenzie pulls saturated cotton pads from the back of her mouth. “I ‘hange 'fees,” she sputters while pointing to an envelope of new pads on the counter. I hand her a few, and she wets them before shoving them in place.
“I don’t think you should get them wet,” I say, concerned that they won’t work.
“’Hey say foo,” she replies as her hand tries to navigate the numbness.
My mother stands on the other side of the sink. Her eyes are alarmingly round—perhaps not from the unknown, but the fear of helplessness.
I am trying to gage my mother’s reaction when McKenzie starts gasping for air. She makes a faint gurgling sound and heaves her shoulders in silent coughs. As she leans over the sink, I hit her once on the back. Though I know that slapping a choking person on the back is not a good idea, in that split-second, it was the only thing I can think to do.
She vomits out the pads, more blood, and the remnants of breakfast.
“Oh! Oh! What did they do to you?” my mother repeats on the brink of tears. She holds her hands to her mouth, too afraid to even touch McKenzie. “What did they do?” she whispers.
“Mom, I need you to go get an old towel and bring it here.”
She does not move except to blink.
I tailor my tone to mimic the one she used on us when we were kids, “Get a towel from the hall over there. We need your help.”
She seems mesmerized by the image of McKenzie, still bent over the sink, and me, holding her hair. Backing toward the hallway, she keeps her eyes on my sister as long as she can, almost as if something worse will happen when she’s not looking.
I talk McKenzie into trying dry pads by the time my mother returns with an old blue towel.
After the cotton squares get properly situated, we move the operation downstairs. My mother and I drape the towel over some pillows and make my sister lie down on the couch.
“What did they do to her,” my mother repeats after McKenzie is settled and asleep.
“She’ll be okay,” I reassure her, though I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Why don’t you stay down here with her, to make sure things are okay.”
My mother moves her attention to me. She swallows and asks, “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.” Taking a deep breath, I try to sound confident. “You will be just fine down here. You are her mother; she needs you to watch TV with her, just like you always have.”
As I escape up the stairs, my mother perches on the couch opposite my sister, staring at her sleeping daughter as if her life depends on it. Though McKenzie will only stay on the couch for a few hours, my mother will be vigilant and follow her around. She will even watch from the window the next day as McKenzie mows the yard.
Over the following year, we will laugh about this, as well as McKenzie's sentence of soft foods for two weeks while the rest of the family taunted her with more appetizing dishes.
Our mother probably has no recollection of any of those days, but I will remember it as a time she re-experiences her role of mother.
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