Tears in Welsh

Tap. Tap. Tap.

'Does that hurt?'

'Uh-uh.'

Tap. Tap. Tap.

'Does that hurt?'

'!!**!!'

The sea was most days so noisy. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it, what else it might sound like. But it sounded just like the sea, rough and tumbling and bubbling. Behind me lay a protective bank of pebbles that stretched the length of the beach. Blue stones. Purple stones. Cream stones. Some with lines, some mottled with spots. Piles and piles of muted colours. We collected the shells she and I, tiny things of mauve and palest green. On the days of rain, it was hard distinguishing between sea and sky. Both heavy. Both grey. But one choppy with temper; surfers falling away from their boards, breaking the illusion of continuity between water and air.

'F**k,' I said holding the hot water bottle to my cheek. 'F**k. F**k. F**k. Then the outcry. Then the tears. Everything felt like agony. Hot. Cold. The bumps along the road on our way to the emergency appointment. The dentist prodded and poked, his instruments, precise and clinical, laid out like a silver army on the trolley. 'You have a deep pocket,' he said, 'full of bacteria.' 'Uh-uh,' I said with his finger stuffed inside my cheek. It might have to come out was his prognosis, gave me a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers, sent me on my way, 'see your dentist as soon as you get home.'

It still hurt. A lot. Stabbing and intense, like boulders cracking thick ice. Wednesday night I couldn't sleep, was sat up-right in bed rocking backwards and forwards like a child, my arms wrapped around my chest, my jaw hung slack like the open cavity of a basking shark. By 3 am I'd had enough. I pulled the covers aside, climbed down the stairs. I watched a lame movie on the ipad, rocking without thought in the leather chair. Dawn appeared, the first I'd seen in many, many years; the sun like a fresh orange over the hills, the tide ebbing, quiet behind the window, shy and sleepy. Covering the nearby field was a sheen of dew kisses like a blanket of candy floss. I wondered how satisfying it would be to run barefoot in that grass, feel the cool against my ankles. I held my hand against my cheek, watched gulls flying in pairs, heard the crows echoing inside the chimney in the cottage next door. Anything to distract me. How could tooth ache be so all consuming? Reduce me to this? Crawling the walls. And at this time in the morning FFsakes?

Hooray for Younger Dad who looked after her; built sand castles during the day, told her stories before bed. I hardly saw her during our week long stay on the Pembrokeshire coast. Too tired, in bed, not joining in. So I attempted sleep in the spare twin in her room, anything to feel close to her, hear her movement and breath. Each day she appeared with more colour in her cheeks. Each day she gave me one of her gentle hugs.

We left two days early. 'Poor Mummy has a really hurty tooth,' she said. 

And now I need a holiday.