Even if he did hurt me today.
I had to go in for a root canal today. This was actually the final day of root canal work on the tooth that was so infected a few months ago. Dr. Hottie has been astonished by the fact that I have extra roots on my molars and the tenacity of the nerves therein.
Today, he was cleaning out the temporary stuff they put in between appointments (I was laying there in a drug induced haze and trying not to snore too loudly) when it felt like he broke through into a pocket of pure pain. Of course I was wide awake then. Good guy that he is, he kept doping my face up with more and more stuff and working through a little at a time. By this time my jaw was in quite a bit of pain, too, from having two sets of hands stuffed in there for over an hour(they were working in the very back).
Still, we finally got everything done and now I am on yet another round of antibiotics.
I am feeling guilty, because I roped the Sarge into babysitting Little Sprout. My Dad was going to, but his mom went in for throat surgery this morning and he needed to be with her. Poor Sarge is driving her bro to an interview today, but when I realised at midnight that I had noone to watch Little Sprout during my appt she volunteered. How cool of a friend is that?! I don't think she will make the same mistake again, though. Little Sprout was very happy to see me this morning after my MIL spent the night to watch the kids (Mr. Barefoot is out of town on business), and was NOT liking the idea of another babysitter so soon. I am hoping for Sarge's sake that Little Sprout naps for most of the day. Sarge won't be able to bring her back until after her bro is done with his appointment, so she is stuck for most of the day with a child that has extreme vocal talent.
Grandma's surgery is another hot button for me. From what I understand, she has had horrible pain for a long time now, and her doc was just treating her for acid reflux. Now all of a sudden they find out she has "growths" lining her throat. I told Mom that I sure as hell hope that the original doc has nothing to do with her surgery.
You have to understand my Grandma. She has a terminal case of "Martyr Syndrome" (she seems to take absurd pleasure in letting people take advantage of her and then sighing and being all wistfull about it), but she is no whiner when it comes to physical pain. She is a tough old gal who has worked hard and given much in her life. She doesn't piss and moan about all the aches and pains she has. For her doc to screw up her diagnosis so badly really ticks me off.
I am really upset that I couldn't be there today, though I have received notice that she is doing really well. When Grandpa died, I wasn't there (because I am monumentally stupid and didn't understand that Grandma was trying to tell me he was actually DYING when she called that night), didn't get to say goodbye to him, and through my stupidity kept my Dad from being able to be there. I still haven't really forgiven myself all the way for that, so I get a little nervous about Grandma's health. I don't want Death to sneak up on me like that again if I can help it. I know that Grandma is a tough bird and that she will most likely be just fine after she recovers from surgery, but this little voice in my head keeps reminding me that I thought that about Grandpa too.
My Grandpa was one of those old guys who seemed like he would outlive us all. He had lived through WW2, and come back with his physical and mental health shattered. But he kept on going and going and going. As he got older, he had some major heart attacks, open-heart surgery, a couple of strokes, and various other "mystery ailments". So many times I was afraid he was going to die (like the time we had to take him to the ER from my 21st birthday dinner), so many times the docs said he wouldn't pull through, and he just kept on living. I guess I just got in the habit thinking about him as the indestructable man. I was wrong, and that realization really kicked me in the butt.
I had been working with seniors for a few years when Grandpa died (he did manage to live long enough to see Big Sprout, his first Great-Grandchild), so I knew that noone lived forever. I even knew that every time he had an "episode" his chances of recovering were slimmer and slimmer. It just never really sank in that it was REAL. This was my Grandpa, the man who had come back from the brink of death times beyond measure. He couldn't die. So when Grandma called that night and said he had taken a turn for the worse, it never occured to me that she meant he was dying. I was supposed to drive down to see him the next day. He couldn't just up and die in the middle of the night like that. He always pulled through. Imagine my shock when we called the hospital in the morning to find that he had died.
Anyway, I think the pain meds are talking more than I am right now. Forgive me if this post is rambling or depressing or anything. Also forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, as I am quite stoned.