It turns out that the rootcanal treatment was the right choice, as the tooth was infected inside. I felt much better when I left Dr Matt's office a while ago. Thank you very much for your notes of support and encouragement. Love your comment on yesterday's post Jez, it made me feel a whole lot better.
Earlier on today at a point where I was feeling particularly sorry for myself and heard myself being short and snappy with the students, I walked out of the class for a short breather. One of the girls followed and asked to talk in private for a minute. This lovely bubbly young girl told be that she had had a lump in her breast last year which was removed, and that she needed to go for another check up tomorrow as another small lump had appeared. She said that she was in pain at night and worried, and could I please excuse her from class tomorrow.
Needless to say, this was a huge wake-up call for me. Who the hell am I to crap on about my shitty day, when this girl manages to be brave through every day of her studies, take the pressure and keep a smile on her face? There are many silent heroes around us, ladies and gentlemen, unsaluted, unsung, who bear their burdens silently and with valour. I see myself as someone who the studetns trust and convide in, and I am sure I only know the teeniest tip of the ice berg. I immediately got rid of the self pity and promised myself to speak more patiently and kindly to each soul on the road.
I lay down in the dentist chair tonight and and old old song came to my mind, a song of comfort that my greatgrandmother Nini used to sing when I was a small girl. 'I walk through the garden alone, and the dew is still on the roses..'
I was priviledged to have her as a physical part of my life till I was 13, when she died at 93. She was the matriach of the family and the family always used to gather around her in her big creeky house. She was short in stature, roundish,walked with a stick, and her voice was stern and kind at the same time. She was proud that up to 90 she could put down her stick and touch the floor with her hands. She always wore pretty brooches, a few of which I still own, and had her own powdery granny smell. I used to love sitting with her at her dressing table, watching her comb her long silver hair and twirling it in a soft bun. She taught me many things, patiently, and I have wonderful memories of sitting with her, her telling stories of the Boer war, reciting the few bushmen words she remembered from her girlhood, her cutting waverthin slices of biltong or apple with her pocketknife, doing the finest crochet work, baking the best buttermilk rusks, the skin of her hands thin as butterfly wings.
There is a great family story about Ouma. Although she was independent, my great grandfather never wanted her to drive. He died when she was in her mid 70s and she then proceeded to get her licence. She bought herself a sturdy car and enjoyed taking herself around the small town where she lived and where I spent most of my holidays. This is the town where both my parents are buried today in the shade of one of my favourite mountains in the world. But that's another story.
She used to like sitting in the car and reading the newspaper. It was a warm place to be on some of those cold Karoo mornings.
I am grateful for her comfort tonight. As I drove home, I stopped by the juiceshop close to my home to get a fresh watermelon and pomegranate juice to soothe the toothe. It is my new favourite combination. I do love living in Oman.
Earlier on today at a point where I was feeling particularly sorry for myself and heard myself being short and snappy with the students, I walked out of the class for a short breather. One of the girls followed and asked to talk in private for a minute. This lovely bubbly young girl told be that she had had a lump in her breast last year which was removed, and that she needed to go for another check up tomorrow as another small lump had appeared. She said that she was in pain at night and worried, and could I please excuse her from class tomorrow.
Needless to say, this was a huge wake-up call for me. Who the hell am I to crap on about my shitty day, when this girl manages to be brave through every day of her studies, take the pressure and keep a smile on her face? There are many silent heroes around us, ladies and gentlemen, unsaluted, unsung, who bear their burdens silently and with valour. I see myself as someone who the studetns trust and convide in, and I am sure I only know the teeniest tip of the ice berg. I immediately got rid of the self pity and promised myself to speak more patiently and kindly to each soul on the road.
I lay down in the dentist chair tonight and and old old song came to my mind, a song of comfort that my greatgrandmother Nini used to sing when I was a small girl. 'I walk through the garden alone, and the dew is still on the roses..'
I was priviledged to have her as a physical part of my life till I was 13, when she died at 93. She was the matriach of the family and the family always used to gather around her in her big creeky house. She was short in stature, roundish,walked with a stick, and her voice was stern and kind at the same time. She was proud that up to 90 she could put down her stick and touch the floor with her hands. She always wore pretty brooches, a few of which I still own, and had her own powdery granny smell. I used to love sitting with her at her dressing table, watching her comb her long silver hair and twirling it in a soft bun. She taught me many things, patiently, and I have wonderful memories of sitting with her, her telling stories of the Boer war, reciting the few bushmen words she remembered from her girlhood, her cutting waverthin slices of biltong or apple with her pocketknife, doing the finest crochet work, baking the best buttermilk rusks, the skin of her hands thin as butterfly wings.
There is a great family story about Ouma. Although she was independent, my great grandfather never wanted her to drive. He died when she was in her mid 70s and she then proceeded to get her licence. She bought herself a sturdy car and enjoyed taking herself around the small town where she lived and where I spent most of my holidays. This is the town where both my parents are buried today in the shade of one of my favourite mountains in the world. But that's another story.
She used to like sitting in the car and reading the newspaper. It was a warm place to be on some of those cold Karoo mornings.
I am grateful for her comfort tonight. As I drove home, I stopped by the juiceshop close to my home to get a fresh watermelon and pomegranate juice to soothe the toothe. It is my new favourite combination. I do love living in Oman.
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