Last April I went to the dentist for a root canal. It was unpleasant, for sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. I did, however, think it was unusual that I was still having twinges of pain in the tooth but chalked it up to being a big baby.

Fast forward to August when I was experiencing what only can be considered a drum-like beating in my mouth, whose epicenter seemed to mysteriously originate from the previously treated tooth.

I did what any good anti-dentite would do and began popping Ibuprofen by the handful hoping that the throbbing would just go away, like a Jehovah’s Witness after the third or fourth knock.

But no. Instead, the beating drum persisted until my only choice was to make the dreaded call to explain to the receptionist that my already root canaled tooth was giving me phantom pain.

My appointment date came just in the nick of time (at 2:30…get it? Tooth Hurty??) because I was to the point where loud noises would cause more pain and there are lots of loud noises at sporting events.

When I sat down in the dental chair, the hygienist said “So this tooth that’s hurting… it’s had a root canal?”

“Yeah, I know it makes no sense. But trust me, it’s that tooth.”

“Jennine, our records indicate that we only started the root canal. You were supposed to come back and have it finished.”

“Really!”

You see, I have no recollection of ever being told that my root canal was only partially finished. I was certainly billed for the whole procedure and usually the dentist refuses to let you out of the office without rescheduling the next appointment… so how could this have happened? And even more importantly, it seems as though I have been sporting an infection in the tooth for the last six months.

I ended up having the molar pulled today, along with a piece of my jaw bone. All because of a miscommunication.

The dentist, feeling badly about how this experience played out, gave me his cell phone number and said “If you need to call me, even if it’s in the middle of the night, please do. I’ll be up at 2 AM with my newborn daughter so don’t worry about waking me.”

“Hmmm… what could you possible do for me at 2 AM? Sing me an Irish Lullaby?”

That’s when he wrote a prescription for pain meds.

And the drumming? Well, it’s laughing and pointing at those weak, little pain pills.

It feels like I’ve swallowed Aerosmith.

This blog could easily turn into a sports blog because all I ever do lately is watch my children play in sporting events or cover sporting events for work.

Last week was incredibly sportsy with junior high football games, varsity football games, varsity volleyball games and cross country.

Thank God my editor threw in an Apple Festival, a school play and a Teacher of the Year ceremony because otherwise all the stats and scores would have consumed my life and given me a sportscussion.

One good thing did come of covering all the events… I finally figured out how to adjust my camera to shoot action! I’ve stuck to the action setting on my Nikon D70 with poor results. Despite borrowing an external flash from a friend (Thank you, Tammy!) I was getting ghosting and extreme graininess from the high ISO I was forced to use:

Instead, I got brave enough and desperate enough to switch to a manual setting. I set my camera to Shutter Priority, 1000 ISO and adjusted the white balance to flash +3. Now my shots are turning out crisp:

This discovery is like receiving a Christmas present from Oprah Winfrey.

When I’m not working on this blog, I’m working over here and here.

And I recently set this up, too.

Our school’s sports teams should feel very loved.

I should have updated sooner but I’ve been swamped. That, and blogging really interferes with pacing, my new part-time job.

Kevin is recovering well and we are now to the point where I play bad guy, constantly reminding the child that it’s been only four days since he was doing the most brilliant rendition of Helen Keller on crack.

Mothers don’t easily forget concussions even when fathers think it’s perfectly okay to toss the football to a brain-injured child not more than 24 hours after the occurrence.

Thus the pacing.

And because the refs didn’t see the nasty tackle, I can’t comfort myself with the knowledge that the other kid actually regrets scrambling my kid’s egg.

Albert, yes that’s his name, and don’t you all picture sweet, innocent Albert from Little House on the Prairie when you see that name, probably received the “Hardest Hit” sticker for his football helmet. Albert was probably praised as they watched the film of the game. The Mayor probably gave him a key to the city and held a parade in his honor. His papa probably patted him on the back and said “Atta boy!”

Or maybe I’m just angry and letting my angry imagination get the best of me.

Kevin’s really okay. He can’t play on Friday night but the next week? Yeah… it’s that next week that concerns me. Because my window of playing overbearing mom closes after Kevin has to sit out one game. I’m not allowed to assume the worst of the future because the future holds endless possibilities of football goodness with a delicious nougat center.

My ovarian authority carries very little weight lately and it’s a very helpless feeling.

In other news, my lesbian haircut is finally starting to grow out.

Kevin- Number 52

It was our Homecoming game and we were up 27-6 when it happened. On a punt to the other team, one of their players came up, full-barrel, behind Kevin and tackled him so hard from behind that Kevin’s face was literally planted in the turf.

Kevin was at least 20 yards away from the ball, making it an unnecessary and shameful hit.

No flags were thrown. The refs didn’t notice. Even the coaches didn’t know Kevin was hurt because Kev’s team members yanked him up by the arms and helped him to the sidelines.

I assumed he got the wind knocked out of him but when I went to Kevin, he said “What happened, Mom?” I explained that he got hit from behind but I could see it wasn’t registering in his brain.

“Who’s out there? Offense or defense?”

“Defense, Kevin.”

“What happened?”

“You got hit from behind. Do you know where we are?”

“Is there a game right now? What’s going on?”

The coaches were still unaware of Kevin’s injury. They yelled for a guard to replace Kevin.

“Mom! I can’t remember what happened!” His eyes welled up with tears.

As minutes passed, I realized that we needed to take Kevin to the hospital. Darren went to gather the kids and move the van to the north end of the field where there were less people to navigate through. We happened to walk past an EMT on duty.

A police officer shined his light in Kevin’s eyes and discovered that his pupils were uneven. The EMT brought us to his truck and put a blood pressure cuff on Kev’s arm. 186/110. High blood pressure can indicate bleeding in the brain.

“He could have broken a bone in his neck and there’s a possibility that it could sever his spinal cord. We should take him by ambulance.”

OMG.

Kevin couldn’t answer simple questions. He asked me over and over again who we were playing, how he got to school, how did it happen, who were we playing, were we winning, was there a penalty, what happened, who were we playing, how he got to school, were we winning, was there a penalty….

As they strapped him onto a board, he said “Last night I had a dream that this would happen. Mom? What’s going on? Who are we playing?”

I remember, at this point, looking back at the football field and thinking “How can the game still be going on? How can the crowd be cheering?” As if the world should come to an abrupt stop, like mine just did.

I held Kevin’s big, cold hand and told him that I wouldn’t leave, that I would ride with him in the ambulance.

“Who are we playing?” was his response.

In the ambulance, Kevin started shaking uncontrollably. The driver looked in the rear view mirror and said to me “He’s in shock and this is typical, nothing unusual.”

Nothing unusual? My kid was loopy, strapped and immobilized, repeating himself and shaking like a leaf. Nothing unusual?

By the time we made the 30 minute drive to the hospital, Kevin was able to recall things like his birth date and phone number. He didn’t complain of neck pain which was the only reassurance I had that this might be considered a mild concussion. He was able to move his feet, his toes, his hands.

The doctor ordered a CT scan and cervical xrays.

Kevin was still wearing his football cleats.

I was still answering the “What happened” question.

The test results came back and the doctor told us that there was no major bleeds in his brain. No broken bones in his neck.

We received a list of activity restrictions and were sent home with our brain-injured child.

“Wake him up in the middle of the night so that we know he can wake up.”

“Ibuprofen for pain”

All the while I’m entertaining the idea of driving to the dirty player’s home and smothering him with a pillow in his sleep.And worse.

There are risks in football. Injuries happen. It’s not like being on a varsity knitting team.

But Kevin was hurt by a pot shot from a player who was angry that his team was losing. And there was no penalty, no consequence for him.

And my kid can’t remember how to tie his shoes.

Kevin woke up this morning with a slight head ache. It hurts him to chew food. But he’s alive, knows his name and is slowly remembering details.

He’s still asking why there was no penalty.

I have no answer for him.

For my friend, Chubbs, because Canadians have the best geese and bacon.