It shot through my lower molar. I dropped the pair of khakis I had been folding into the open suitcase on my bed.
“Oh, no,” I muttered.
My husband, Mike, looked up from across the room. “What is it?”
“It’s this darn tooth,” I said, rubbing my jaw. I had a crown, but the tooth underneath was apparently infected. The dentist had warned it might become a problem. But that tooth couldn’t have started acting up at a worse time.
We were heading to Florida for a vacation with the grandkids in just days. An anxious traveler, I was already on edge. That’s why I was packing so early: to feel prepared and in control. Traveling was full of potential problems, all of them cause for panic. And now I had a bad tooth to add to the list.
“You’d better get right to the dentist,” Mike said.
I winced. I dreaded going to the dentist almost as much as I dreaded traveling. One previous visit had been an absolute nightmare.
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