I have an infected tooth, even though my dentist didn't exactly say so. He didn't say so even though the right side of my face feels as if it's on fire, and my upper and lower jaws ache, and my throat hurts when I swallow, and it feels like someone is shoving a fist through my head when I bite down on a french fry. Taking into consideration all of these facts, I decided to ask my dentist for an antibiotic this afternoon since he didn't offer me one. And, well, Vicodin for the pain. That he offered. And that I accepted willingly and with so much grace it would embarrass you.
Something very odd happens to me when I suffer from excruciating pain. I become really pleasant. It doesn't matter that I can't really focus my eyes on anything. Or that I can't do my job very well. What matters is that I'll be extremely pleasant while not functioning as a human being. And I think that counts for something.
Being in pain also makes me love my husband very much. Here's a photo and some words to prove it.
I took this photo of My Mater the day I took the fog photos in an earlier post. Just look at how strong and tough he looks. Don't you wish you had a man who could wrangle all that firewood with only his bare hands and a hydraulic wood splitter? Okay, maybe you do have a man like that. If you're a woman, I mean.
But maybe you don't have a man like this. Last night I was in bed, and he said, "You look so beautiful lying there." He said I was glowing. I resisted the urge to ask if I was running a fever, and instead I smiled and my soul opened up like a flower.