What losing a tooth in a pandemic taught me
Pain is a good teacher and when she teaches, you can't look away.
Just when I was beginning to feel a little lucky, being at home, working, safe with my family, all of us cooking cozy meals and watching movies together late into the night, it struck.
Like a small reminder to the larger threat out there. How immune to pain and suffering did I think I was, it seemed to say.
From a dull throb to an insistent beating thrum, it struck a rhythm that spread dread in my heart. There was no getting away from it. The usual painkillers slunk away silently on ragged claws as if saying, this is not what we signed up for. Yet, I procrastinated on calling the dentist.
I leaned into this sinister drum roll that thrummed all through me and continued my routine. Keeping up with the COVID numbers across the world, despairing at people for not following basic precautionary measures, for not looking out for other people out of basic human concern.
Till one night when the pain was so bad, all my favorite dead people came visiting.
We were together for precious seconds where I saw them in a way I don't think I ever did. In pain. The pain they hid from me. The pain I didn't want to see or to feel.
I was with my father in hospital on a bright winter day, it was the beginning of my college vacation and I was looking forward to seeing my friends right after. He lay in bed, obviously in pain, recovering from an angina attack.
I was with my mother as she raged at her doctor for prescribing her another huge dose of chemo. I don't really think I felt her pain as I tried to calm her down. The doctor knew better, she was quiet.
I was with my friend on the phone, complaining. Why don’t you call back, why do you insist on being alone through your medical treatment, how am I to know you’re feeling better or worse?
I wish I had been more present.
Empathy hurts. It’s much easier to be complacent, to let self-preservation kick in, which it usually does. Muttering in a bitter dry voice, to evacuate, pull out, do not engage. It assures you that you’ve done your bit, if you care anymore, you suffer, ok?
Empathy wants you to answer back. Say, it's ok. I want to suffer a little, I love them. I may not know their pain but for a moment I am going to allow myself to know what they may be feeling.
That night as I nursed my burgeoning toothache, I knew I had missed those chances. I was there with them, but aloof, elsewhere. Safely intimate. Not vulnerable, not open.
My own pain was showing me a mirror and I didn't like what I saw.
The next day a kind dentist removed my tooth. Yes, there was more pain, waiting. But since the night of the toothache, when I had writhed in pain, I was stronger. It had been a night of understanding. Also by no means had I been alone in my suffering.
Maybe when my favorite dead people came visiting, it was an act of solidarity, of support, of empathy.
And it was a time to light that on a torch and pass it on.
