Of love and root canals

B'S been in pain for two straight weeks.

He's been a trouper through two runs of (failed) antibiotics, two episodes with the root canal procedure (one took out three roots and a huge amount of infection, and the second, two days later, took out the fourth hidden root and a massive pus pocket that astounded the entire dental staff. B now has the distinction of being the Worst Root Canal Infection Ever in that office), two walk in clinic visits, two visits to his regular doctor, and three supplemental antibiotic injections. By the time we got up Friday morning, he'd had enough.

"That's it." I said. I took the day off to stay home with him so we could get some answers somewhere, from somebody. The dentist, who doesn't work on Fridays, came in specially to see him, and with one look, sent him on to his doctor's office, fearing that the infection was heading down his throat. We had a hard weekend, to say the least. After the antibiotic shot on Friday at his doctor's office (of Rocephin, which is one of the most painful IM injectables out there), he was ready to curl up and die. We curled up in bed instead, where I draped his ouchy hip with my beanbag thing that I'd heated in the microwave. He's gotten little sleep for the last few weeks, and it seemed like as fatigued as he was, every little noise set him off.

By Saturday morning, he was feeling a little better, so we felt encouraged. He had his second shot on Saturday afternoon, and decided that he was okay enough to skip Sunday's. But by Sunday afternoon, he'd crashed yet again, running a fever. It's like his immune system is just overloaded. To top it all off, the codeine that he's been eating every couple hours is irritating his stomach. It's a loaded game: if he loses his lunch, he loses his PD meds too. And all these pills are getting confusing to keep straight.

At work this morning I got a snippy comment from one of the guys. "Do you EVER work an eight hour day?"

I said "When my family's sick, I work MORE than an eight hour day!" It really hacked me off. My boss has been great; his policy has always been family first, work second. I was not really 'here' in my brain all week long last week, worrying about B at home in pain and running home for my half hour lunch just to check on him. I hope they can be patient just a little longer.

But it does bring up ugly questions. How will we have to rewrite my job description when B eventually can't work any more? When I need to be home for his care? Will there be half time? Flex time? Resentment from coworkers? To think on that too long makes me angry, and I don't need to be angry any more.

This little illness has also brought up several issues between B and I, both in our relationship and in my own psyche. I've known for a long time that I get upset when my significant other is ill. Sometimes that fear comes out as anger. That is an incredibly hard thing to write, and even as I type it I worry how it will sound... how it will be perceived by others who may read these words. I felt some of it towards the end of the week. On Saturday, when B felt a little bit more like his own self, we talked about it, and I apologised for getting snippy with him. He had some really good insights on how fear sometimes comes out as anger. In fact, he's that way with me sometimes. When I wasn't taking my blood sugar, he'd get snippy. We are so much alike... so fearful of losing each other to something stupid.

The other factor was that B has a tendency to pull away from human contact when he's ill or in pain, like a dog crawling away into a hole to die. This upsets me. I want to help. It hurts me when he's hurting... I want to help 'fix' it. It's in my nature. But B's the fourth child in a five child family... there wasn't much coddling when you were ill. He's used to being self-sufficient... resilient... self-denying... a stoic. He was okay with my running back and forth to the pharmacy or to the store for him, but otherwise, he holed up in the garage and pulled away even from my casual touch. By the weekend, it was hurting me, and I finally told him about it. He was surprised. He hadn't noticed that he was doing it.

"I'm just not used to being taken care of," he said. And I know he's right. His ex was of the 'oh just go take an aspirin and hush' variety.

But the implications of this resonate, creating ripples I can't push from my thoughts. Will he continue to pull away when the PD finally catches up with him? Will we spend those days becoming more and more distant as he recedes into himself?

I am tired, it's been a nerve-wracking two weeks, and I'm deep in the throes of the ugliest case of PMS that I've had in a long time. I'd call it depression, but my daughter keeps track of her cycles, and I know that she's cursed me for this week! The Dairy Queen Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzard cravings, five new pimples, and random weeping sessions are the proof. AAAAAAND the extra bra size. Which, even in the throes of tooth pain, B doesn't seem to be complaining about.

So this too shall pass. But the lesson must not.

The marriage counseling industry shall take a (sic) tip from the real estate industry: COMMUNICATION COMMUNICATION COMMUNICATION. Nothing else will do.

Every night I pray for B's pain to go away.