Remember to Breathe

We've officially lived in our new apartment for a whole week now. Sure, we've had furniture and stuff in this place for a good month now, but moving in has been a slow process. I've been holding my breath from the beginning, wondering if everything was going to go as planned.

I started packing in the middle of July, and did that for 2 weeks. The third week I was in Utah. The fourth found me frantically cleaning the old apartment for inspection, moving carloads of stuff to our new place - box by box, bag by bag - and unpacking what I could. The next week and a half Scott and I were in Texas. But last Tuesday we returned home, and, aside from a new (used) futon from Salvation Army and a $5 bookshelf (we were so lucky to find it - nothing around here is that cheap!) from Value Village, not much in our apartment has changed. But only now do I finally feel settled.

It's nice to let out the breath I've been holding for a month and a half! I think my face was turning purple...

An All-Too-Familiar Face

We went to church twice that day. First to 9am sacrament meeting at the local LDS chapel, then to St. Christopher's Episcopalian church for 10:30 mass with my father. Scott had not remembered ever going to an Episcopalian service before, and afterward he peppered my dad with sociological questions about the structure and policies of the church. Thank goodness there was no mention, and therefore no debate, about the actual religion.

I was looking forward to attending the LDS meeting, and for once Scott and I made it to church on time. (Why is it so difficult to do when we're at home?) We walked in right as the bishop was welcoming everyone to church on that lovely Sabbath morning, and settled in to the last row before the music started.

And then I saw him. Sitting at the sacrament table, dressed in white shirt and tie, was a man who was the spitting image of my stepfather - plus 15 pounds and 10 or so years. I froze. I finally tore my eyes away, and to keep myself from looking back at him I forced myself to stare straight ahead. The whole thing was extremely unnerving. A few minutes went by and I couldn't hold my gaze ahead any longer. I glanced back at the mystery man. I swear, it's him. Could it really be? No, of course not - but, sacre bleu, it looks just like him, only there are more wrinkles (stress, or age? very hard to say) lining his face. But he's got Richard's same brown hair, the same mustache, the same sad, tortured eyes. Even the way he holds his hands in front of him is the same. Oh, please, Lord, don't let him look at me. But the man did look. I turned away quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the hymnbook in my lap. I stole another glance. He caught me, and again I looked away. It became almost a game - I would stare at him and study his every feature, comparing them to Richard's, until the man would catch me watching him - and I would look away and pretend that I wasn't. Every time I looked at him panic would rise in my throat; it was like a horror movie that I couldn't help but watch, though it made my stomach churn to look.

This went on for a good 10 minutes. Only once was I not fast enough in glancing away, and our eyes locked momentarily. I very nearly vomited. The man stared at me curiously and I thought I saw (though very well could have imagined) in his eyes the very same fear and inner turmoil that was Richard's. I physically could not tear my eyes away, and I thank the Lord that the man broke the gaze first. Oh the panic I felt! It was all I could do to not run, shaking and in tears, from the room. But I stayed, and let the anxiety flow out of my fingers as I gripped my scriptures until my knuckles turned white.

I survived one Sunday but I don't know if I could handle much more than that. If I lived in Killeen I would go inactive pretty quickly - or attend church in a different area. I know that sometimes people stop coming to church because they don't like certain people in the congregation - but has anyone gone inactive because somebody looked like a person that they didn't like?

Not What I'd Planned

The look on the dentist's face as he examined my x-rays was not one that any dental patient would want to see. It was the look of one bearing ill news. He sucked air quickly through his gritted teeth and said frankly, "Well, it looks like you're in an awful lot of pain." "Yeah, it feels that way too," I laughed weakly. I was trying to be brave but was terrified, for good reason, of what he might say next.

A root canal was the order of the day - that very day, in fact. The dentist insisted that I have it started within the hour, hoping only one operation would solve the problem. I began to cry. All the pain that I had been trying so hard to hold back was released, mixing with tears that signified my terror at facing the root canal.

The bad news: they wouldn't, though I begged, put me to sleep for it.
The good news: they promised that it would all be over by lunch time.

Lunch time? I think I can handle that, I told myself. But I cried all the same. For the next hour while I waited I sat in silence, only speaking when spoken to and certainly not drawing out my answers. "This isn't how it's supposed to be!" I thought indignantly. "I'm on vacation! Why am I stuck in a dentist's office?"

For all my crying and worrying, it went pretty well. My mother-in-law sat with me the whole time for support. She's wonderful. The dentist and his son (who actually did the root canal) were both very kind, and did everything they could to make me feel comfortable. Of course, no matter what, root canals aren't exactly comfortable - but they did the best that they could. Only a few times during the procedure did my knuckles turn white from clenching the chair arms and did the pain squeeze silent tears from my eyes. I'm sure there have been worse root canals in the history of the world. :)



Honestly, it was the feeling ill and vomiting from the pain medication for 3 days afterward that really got to me.