Communicating is Sometimes Like Pulling teeth

Communication:  What is it? How do we learn it? Why is it so hard at times to get our messages across to others or to understand what others are trying to say to us? The following humorous story about my adventures with my teenagers when they had their wisdom teeth removed will lay the groundwork for discussions about communication, its challenges, and how to improve our skills in interpersonal relationships at home and in the workplace.

    The doctor warned Tristan with a smile, “Now when you are on this medication, you may feel an urge to tell the truth or lose your inhibitions.”

     After Tristan woke up, the nurse called me back to sit with him in the recovery room. Goofy smiles. Okay, I can deal with that. Giggles. Okay, giggles are tolerable. Then confession; “Mom, you know what I really want to do?”

     “No son, tell me.” I patted his hand.

     “Pole dance.”

     “Okaaaay, that’s nice. So how do you feel,” I asked, changing the subject, wondering how my upright Mormon son even knew what pole dancing was.

     “I feel like pole dancing.” He began to gyrate in the chair.

     “Jeff!” I called, “Jeff, can you come in here please?” Jeff had come for the ride. I’m glad I had backup! It started to feel warm in the room.

     “Ooh, baby!” Tristan tried to get out of the recliner. “La, la, la! Cha, cha, cha, yeah!”

     Beads of sweat now forming on my palms. “Jeff! Can you do something?” I pleaded when he came into the room. This was so embarrassing! What if all the people in the waiting room were listening? I didn’t want them all to think my son was a closet pervert.

     I’m under control. I’m under control. I can deal with this.

     Jeff pushed Tristan gently back into the chair. “Hey, bro, cool it.”

     “Cha, cha, cha, ooh la la.”

     A nurse came by, raising her eyebrows.

     “I bet pole dancers make good money.” Tristan began calculating the potential income.

     “They probably do,” I answered, “but you really need to sit still so your mouth doesn’t bleed.”

     “Yeah, okay, Mom.” He closed his eyes. No movement. A minute passed. My heart rate began to slow again. A sigh of relief escaped me.

     “You know, I could be a good pole dancer.” The gyrations began again.

     Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Blood pressure rising. Arm-pits sweating. How much longer do we need to be here? It must have been an hour already. I looked at my watch; fifteen minutes.

     The nurse came by and smiled, “So how’s he…”

     “Fine! Fine.” I cut her off a little too quickly. “Just fine, thank you.” She tilted her head, shrugged, and moved on.

     “Oooh baby, ooh baby, la la la…”

     “Bro, come on, you’re upsetting mom. You can dance when we get home,” Jeff soothed.

     “Okay!” Nurse Cheery Cheeks popped in. “You’re free to go.”

     I bolted up from the chair.

     “Do you need any help?” She smiled.

     “No!” I answered too quickly, cutting her off again. “No.” Calm down, act casual. “No. That’s kind of you. We’re fine, really.”

     I took one of Tristan’s arms and Jeff took the other. The nurse shrugged and opened the door for us. We walked down the sidewalk leading away from the office, Tristan’s hips swinging like he was Elvis Presley and Tom Jones rolled up into one. I felt the nurse’s shocked eyes burning into my back. We turned the corner.

     “Why don’t you get the van, Mom, while I help Tristan walk?” Jeff swung Tristan’s arm over his shoulder and supported him around the waist. They looked more like dancing partners than anything else.

     “Great idea,” I replied, starting off across the parking lot.

     “Hey! Hey!” Tristan shouted. I turned to see an older couple walking to their car. “Hey, you wanna dance? Whooo yeah, whooo yeah!” Tristan shouted at them, swaying like a drunkard, trying to break away from his brother’s grasp. I broke into a run, head down, shame brightening my cheeks.

     The couple stood watching as Tristan and Jeff headed toward the van where I was standing. Go away. Just go away, I silently willed the nosy old people.

     “He’s sick! He’s not himself!” I shouted, getting in and sliding down in the front seat. The man gripped his wife’s elbow and led her to their car. Jeff coaxed Tristan into the front seat and strapped him in, where he twisted and turned to imaginary music. At every red light I worried he would jump out and twirl around the nearest light pole. I broke the speed limit all the way home. We got Tristan into bed where he slept soundly for the next several hours. He didn’t remember a thing, but I remembered every humiliating detail.

     Jeff had to have all his wisdom teeth out just before Christmas. I took him to the same doctor that Tristan had. No one else went with us and I didn’t think to ask. Big mistake.

     “He did really well,” the nurse told me, “you can come back and sit with him in recovery. I sat down next to him. Jeff looked at me groggily and tried to get up.

     “You need to lie back down, Jeff.”

     “Why?”

     “Because they want you to rest for a few minutes before we leave, so the anesthesia wears off a little.”

     “I feel fine. Why can’t we go now?” Jeff tried getting up again.

     “Jeff, just lay there for a few minutes. We’ll leave when they tell us we can.”

     “I feel fine. When can I take this gauze out of my mouth?” Jeff asked, the muffled words trying to escape through a stuffed orifice.

     The nurse poked her head in. “You need to stop talking and just relax. You’re going to prolong the bleeding.”

     “See?” I said, “You’re supposed to rest.”

     “Well, I don’t need to. I can get up. I feel fine. The stuff they gave me hasn’t affected me.” He bolted upright in the chair.

     “Jeff! Just sit down and close your eyes!” I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Déja vu all over again.

     Jeff jumped out the chair, swayed a bit like a sapling in a stiff spring breeze, and smiled at me triumphantly. “See? I’m fine. Watch this!” Gee, I could hardly wait. At least he wasn’t pole dancing. He threw himself down onto the floor, dazed from the sudden drop in elevation, and paused to catch his breath. Then he began doing push-ups.

     “Jeff, please get up,” I pleaded.

     “Two…three…four…” Jeff huffed.

     Lord, help me! I put my head down pretending to read the book I brought, trying to be oblivious to what was happening. Out of my peripheral vision I saw the nurse walk by, back up, and do a double-take.

     “Mr. Crookston!” she scolded, “Get in that chair right now!” She grabbed him by the arm and forced him into the chair. “You’re bleeding!” Jeff lowered his head sheepishly while the nurse glared at me.

     “I-I couldn’t control him,” I stammered, “He wouldn’t listen to me.”

     The nurse removed the blood-soaked gauze and replaced it with fresh dry packs. “Sit!” she commanded. “Don’t you dare get up.”

     Humiliation began enveloping me like a shockwave, starting at the crown of my head and rapidly spreading, traveling down to my toes. How much longer? I looked at my watch. Eons seemed to drag by, but it had only been two minutes since I had last looked at the time.

     After what felt like an eternity the nurse came in and said we could go. Sweet deliverance! We made it out to the van and began the drive home. Jeff began to squirm. He was eyeballing the door. I accelerated. Okay light, stay green, stay green, no! Don’t turn red! No! Oh, man!

     “Jeff,” I said as casually as I could, “why don’t you put your seatbelt on? I’d hate to get stopped.” I braced myself for resistance, but to my surprise, Jeff complied.

     “Can we stop at Horlacher’s house? I need to get my glasses,” he asked.

     “Maybe we should just go home. I’ll pick them up later,” I offered.

     “But it’s right on the way home.”

     “Well… I don’t know,” I was uncertain as to the wisdom of stopping anywhere besides home. After some badgering on Jeff’s part, I consented to stop. “Just stay in the van. Don’t move. Just stay right here. I’ll go to the door.” I got out of the van and walked quickly to the front door, glancing over my shoulder every two seconds. Jeff was actually behaving. No one answered my repeated knocks and doorbell ringing. I wrote a note on the back of our business card and stuck it in the doorjamb.

     “They weren’t home so I left a note about your glasses,” I explained, about to put the van in reverse. Jeff opened the door and sprang out.

     “Wait! What are you doing?” I cried.

     “I’ll just go in and get them,” Jeff shouted to me as he reached for their doorknob.

     “Jeff, just get in the van!”

     Jeff went to the garage and tried the combination lock. “I can just go in through their garage.”  It didn’t work. He walked up to the side gate and was about to scale it.

     “What are you doing?”  I demanded.

     “Going into the back yard. Their back door is probably unlocked.”

     “What if there’s a dog? He’ll rip out your remaining teeth!” I began to panic.

     “There’s no dog,” Jeff reassured me.

     “JEFF! DON’T YOU DARE CLIMB THAT WALL!” I yelled. “Get in the van RIGHT NOW or you’re in big trouble, mister!”

     Jeff stood motionless, teetering on the brink of indecision. He must have seen the wild look in my eyes and decided to obey his half-crazed mother. He got into the van, closed the door, and asked, “What’s the problem?

     “The problem is called ‘breaking and entering,’ Jeff, and it’s against the law.”

     “It’s just ‘entering,’” he rationalized, “and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

     By this time we were barreling down the road toward home, with me silently praying the traffic signals would be favorable. Stay green, stay green, please don’t turn! Oh, man! Yellow’s okay, I can make it, I can make it! Whoops! Oh well.

     “So how’d it go?” Scott inquired as I came in the door.

     “Don’t ask!” I replied, “Don’t even go there.”

     Jeff slept soundly for the next several hours and awoke remembering bits and pieces. I, however, remembered every detail.

     Summer was the next one to get her wisdom teeth pulled. “Mom, you’re going to take me to the oral surgeon on Thursday, right?”

     “No, I’m going to ask dad to.”

     “What?” Summer exclaimed, “I don’t want Daddy to take me. I want you to take me.”

     “Sorry, I can’t. I just can’t.”

     Summer raised her eyebrows, questioning.

     “Look,” I explained, “I don’t want to know your secret fantasies; I don’t want to be witness to some macho I-Can-Do-Anything stuff. I don’t want to see the female version of it either; ‘I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.’ I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

     “But if I do anything embarrassing, I don’t want Daddy to be there!”

     “Oh, so torture your poor mother? No. Sorry. No-can-do.”

     As it turned out, Scott had a music seminar to attend that morning. How convenient. The task fell upon me once again to accompany one of our kids to the oral surgeon’s office. I’m sure we had made quite a reputation for ourselves by then. They probably had hidden cameras so they could watch the show from an adjacent room while eating popcorn and passing around O’Doule’s.

     The morning of the surgery, Summer took out a pad of paper on way to the office. “Okay,” she said, as she began writing a vow. “I will not dance, do push-ups, be mean, or get up out of the chair. What else?”

     “Or be silly?” I asked.

     “Silly is okay, isn’t it, Mom?”

     “I don’t know, Summer. I don’t know if I can handle silly. Just try to sit there and rest after you wake up. Just sit quietly until it’s time to go.”

     We made chitchat with the nurse while waiting for the doctor, recounting the past.

     “I remember,” the nurse mused.

     “I couldn’t control them!” I said, defending myself.

     “Males are little more aggressive when they are under the effects of this medication.”

     That was comforting to hear. Maybe Summer wouldn’t be so bad. I held her hand until the doctor administered the sodium brevitol and Summer’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Settling comfortably on a couch with a book in the lobby, I awaited (with some anxiety) the call to come back into the recovery room. About twenty minutes later I was being ushered into the back of the office.

     Summer lounged on a recliner, looking like a drunken lush; head swaying, red-eyed, and goofy.

     “So,” I ventured, “how are you feeling?” Brace yourself. Here it comes.

     “Mymowthithdwy.”

     “Excuse me?”

     “Dwy.Mowthithdwy,” she mumbled, cheeks bulging with bloody gauze.

     “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

     “Wherahsmypen?” Summer fumbled around for her pocket, pulled out a ballpoint and started writing on her hand.

     “Don’t do that. Don’t write on your hand.”

     Summer stuck her tongue out and pulled at it. “Ithsodwy, feel it. Do you underthand me?”

     “Yes, yes, I understand you. Your mouth is dry and no, I don’t want to feel your tongue.”

     “Look. Thee? Ehhh, ahhh” she began poking at the roof of her mouth.

     “I’m sure you can drink something when we get home. Now just lay still and rest.” I instructed.

     “Look! Theemymowth? Feelit. Ith dwy.”

     “Don’t talk. Talking is making your mouth dry. Just rest.”

     More talk. More tongue clawing. More writing scribbles on a scrap of paper. More of my pleading for silence.

     “I’m behaving” Summer said. “I’m not doing anyfing I wote down I wouldn’t do.”

     “Can you add no talking? You’re talking too much. You’re making yourself bleed more.”

     “Get the nuth. I wan wata.”

     “You can’t have any now.”

     “Did I take my wath outta my pocket?”

     “Your watch was in your hand when I came in here,” I informed her.

     “I didn’t take it outh. Did they go in my pocket?”

     “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Now just be quiet.”

     “My mowth ith so dwy. Did I take my wath outta my pocket?”

     And so it went, all the way out to the van. All the way home. Yackety-smackety, blah, blah, blah, chit chit chit, chat chat chat, non-stop!

     “Your breath reeks, Summer, will you please stop talking?”

     “Jeff’s bweath thmelled the thame way. My mowth tasth like old tuna fish.”

     “Well it smells like tuna that went through a shark’s digestive tract.” I turned the vent on full blast.

     “Ithn’t that cold? Aren’t you freething?” Summer asked, somewhat coherently.

     “I would rather breathe that truck’s cold exhaust then smell your breath! Now close your pie hole and give it a rest,” I ordered, feeling light-headed from carbon monoxide pouring into the van through the air vents.

     I’d like to say we drove home in silence, but no such luck. Summer stopped talking only long enough to catch her breath or claw at her tongue. Unlike her brothers, she did not sleep for hours, but talked and complained till I lost track of time. I was grateful for the privilege of leaving to get her prescriptions filled. I looked for a busy pharmacy, a very busy pharmacy, and returned home a couple hours later to the sound of her voice wafting throughout the house. Perhaps the pain meds would make her drowsy; if not, perhaps I could use them ease my pain.

The next few posts will highlight the essential principles of communication, different media technologies, how to deliver bad news tactfully and effectively, and much much more. So grab a cup of coffee and let's see if we can sink our teeth into becoming better communicators!