This is a story I wrote several years ago. I was reminded of it yesterday when I was sitting in the dentist chair hoping history would not repeat itself.
Three years ago, I was systematically having the amalgam fillings in my teeth replaced with something less ancient. I said systematically, not expediently. For of all the things I despise, sitting in the dentist’s chair is pretty high on the list. And so I was scheduling these replacement fillings with as much space between appointments as humanly possible. I was nearing the end of the process when I returned to see my dentist.
The appointment was made for morning as I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. I can not, even with the most overstated and exaggerated adjective, ever describe myself as a brave sort. Despite being a nurse and having no problem probing other people with needles, the notion of having a person insert a needle into my gum is something else altogether. But in this case it was necessary, so I persevered.
It was quick, and truth be told- relatively painless. And I was out of there in record time with some newer sleeker fillings.
It was around bedtime I began to notice something odd. Though my gums and lips had returned to normal, my lazy tongue was still resting. And when I woke in the morning for work, the slumber persisted and continued through the weekend. The entire right side of my tongue was acting perfectly normal. But the left side was dead as a doornail. It was a challenge not to inadvertently bite it in half. And it made some words very tricky to say without spitting or drooling. Most unattractive.
By Monday morning there were some tiny signs of life. Not pleasant signs, but life nonetheless. You know the pins and needles feeling of a limb which has been deprived of blood supply as it wakens? Imagine that same piercing feeling all over the side and tip of one’s tongue and you can appreciate the point at which I found myself as I phoned the dentist’s office and relayed my story to the receptionist. In her most comforting voice she suggested I call back if the problem persisted.
A week later, strange sensations were persisting. My tongue was nearly awake by this point. Awake in the way a tongue being grazed by an electric sander would be awake. I found that in a pitiful uninformed way I began missing the ‘dead as a doornail’ feel. And the discomfort was getting old. Internet blogs about persons to whom this rare side effect also occurred were most distressing to read. They suggested that the impairment could last weeks to months. I suspected those bloggers were just trying to slay me with their words.
But as everything seems to happen in my life, the timing was practically perfect. Because my friends and I had recently embarked on a journey to stop the gossip in our lives.
Gossip is sticky. Sometimes when you hear it- it sounds remarkably like a prayer request. I’m not saying we should stop praying for one another, but I need to remind myself to be sure my intentions when sharing a concern are for purposes of widening the circle of prayer - rather than passing along a tidbit that isn’t mine to pass. Sometimes tidbit intention is hard to discern…
And sometimes well-meaning people can make themselves believe that if they sandwich their blows between compliments, it somehow doesn’t count as gossip. But it does.
An example for those who don’t recognize the difference between blatant gossip and sugar-coated gossip: I share this from a book I recently read (but have changed the name to protect the innocent.)….. “Brenda has the loveliest hair. She’s a little too fond of the bacon bits, but goodness, that hair is shiny!”
So back to my friends and I. We tackled this topic, studying the undeniable warnings in scripture and talking endlessly about our struggles and our goals. The ten of us had all lived through the guilt and misery of being the gossiper. And we had all endured the agony of being the one about whom the gossip was spread. We began striving to keep one another accountable while endeavoring to show kindness with our tongues. We found tools to help us along our way and were optimistic as we realized we were more than capable of using our mouths for encouragement. You CAN actually control your tongue if you constantly remember your God-given purpose.
And so: In nearly flawless timing, my own crazy tongue had become a CONTINUAL prompt to me. That fiery muscle. Just sitting idle in my mouth and waiting to wreak havoc. But half of it had become almost comically incapacitated. And BOY was that an ever-present cue.
So while I hoped my tongue would return to normal, I trusted my strange and timely discomfort would forever etch in my mind the glaring reminder that my tongue is indeed a fire.
It took about 6 months to absorb the lesson and to thankfully realize my tongue had returned to normal.
I still have to stop myself occasionally when my mouth has ambitions that my heart finds objectionable. I guess we all do.
Despite local anesthesia, yesterday’s dental visit was without a repeat performance of the dead tongue show. In fact my tongue is probably more awake than the rest of me this morning. I’m going to find a lollipop to celebrate.
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