“Blessed are the cracked, for they let in the light.” — Groucho Marx (or at least attributed to him)

After a week of tooth pain and denial, I finally bit the bullet (yes, pun is intended, thank you) and made the dreaded call to my dentist. This is not a decision I take lightly. I have high anxiety around dental visits, something about the drilling sounds, the gag-inducing x-rays, and the certainty that someone will poke exactly where it hurts. My dentist is lovely, truly. But this was never going to be a joyride.

I arrived, summoned my courage after some deep breathing, and stepped into the familiar choreography: the song and dance of paperwork, the ritual of multiple X-rays, the cold thingy pressed against my tooth like a frosty interrogation light. After some poking and prodding, the verdict was in: I needed to see an endodontist. A possible root canal. My referral came with a misspelled first name (Kathrine) and a cheerful “good luck.”

I made the call. And wouldn’t you know it, someone had just canceled. They could see me in an hour. I took that as divine timing or cosmic mischief, depending on how you look at it.

I arrived early, walking under an awning flanked by two chains that looked suspiciously like braces and bad memories. I corrected my last name on the paperwork (REA, thank you very much), though strangely, they had my first name right. I heard drilling from behind closed doors. No one was screaming or fleeing, which felt promising.

The office was posh. I suspected I’d be helping fund the decor. I wasn’t wrong.

A kind woman ushered me in. More song and dance. More X-rays. More cold thingy. I whispered, “Mercy.” Then I said it louder: “MERCY.”

The endodontist was gentle and honest. He said I had “a couple of concerns.” Of course I do. My body doesn’t do anything the easy way. A root canal might help. Or it might not. My tooth had multiple cracks. An implant might be the better option. And while I was there, he suggested a mouth guard for my TMJ. Why not add that to the mix?

So now, my mouth is even more sore from all the poking and prodding, and I have a referral, not for a procedure, but for a conversation about extraction and implants. A consultation about loss and replacement. About letting go of what’s cracked and welcoming what might hold.

I didn’t leave with a root canal, but a reminder: healing isn’t always linear, and sometimes the bravest thing we do is show up, again and again, for the poking, the prodding, and the possibility of mercy. My tooth may be cracked, but my spirit is still intact. And maybe that’s enough for today.

Have you ever had a moment where your body demanded more compassion than your calendar allowed? What’s your version of the cold thingy, where you whisper “mercy” and hope someone hears?

A newsletter by Katie Rea.

Katie Rea Spiritual Direction 🌞 – Connection through our spiritual journeys.