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It is February and March. I am asked to cover shifts for co-workers. Favors are owed to me and I use them. I work a Wednesday, for a Tuesday off two weeks later. I work a Saturday for a Thursday off, one week later. I’m going to go somewhere before my surgery.
The Surgery
What? I didn’t mention it?
Oh, that’s right—this has been six months in the making (more like 16 years in the making).
My upper wisdom teeth never really made an appearance. The bottom wisdom teeth barely peeked out over my molars, saw the world, and refused to come any closer.
That is wisdom.
However, in their hesitancy and cowardice, they left the tiniest sliver of tooth for my gums to cover like a security blanket. Every time I ate and forgot to brush—or ate anything that hid well—my gums would get infected. Dentists told me over and over to remove my wisdom teeth to both prevent this minor inconvenience and avoid a much worse infection.
I was raised to believe that if you don’t need surgery, you don’t opt for it. Surgeries often result in new pains, new complications, and, at worst, terrible errors that compound problems—and lead to the need for more surgery. It’s like your wish being granted by a genie. Sure, they’ll take away that pesky pain in your jaw, but you might end up with irreparable nerve damage. Did it ever cross your mind that the pain in your jaw was caused by bad habits, and the surgery was just snake oil?
I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was going to get my wisdom teeth removed just before 2020—and then everything went wrong. I was supposed to get them removed with a friend: “I’ll do it if you do it,” we said. She did it, and I chickened out. And then, finally, I decided it was now or never. Why not listen to all the professionals while it wasn’t “too late”?
Last year, my gums got so irritated (infected) that I missed work. When I called every dentist’s office within an hour’s drive, I found not only did they not accept my insurance (Medicaid/state-funded/”poor people” insurance), but I also couldn’t get an appointment at a place that did accept it—for months.
I had an existing problem and was being told to either go somewhere else or wait.
So I went to urgent care—which may be what any metropolitan resident would do and know to do, but I’m from a small town where you can still call up your doctor the day of and get in by that afternoon.
At a surprisingly pleasant urgent care center, I was told, “Oh yeah. I see it. You’ve got a pus pocket.”
A pus pocket. What is that, you might ask? God, don’t Google it.
It’s basically an abscess caused by infection.
I was prescribed antibiotics for the infection, something for the pain, and a mouthwash—for my cleanliness, I presume. I was limited to soft-ish foods.
I’m not usually too hampered by diets. I’m one of those people who could eat the same two to three things if it means I don’t have to make a choice. But Josh was traveling at the time. I was working extra hours to not only fill my time but also make up for the cost of his traveling. There was no one to drive me to urgent care, and I couldn’t afford to sit at home and “rest it off.”
I’m fairly certain infections don’t work that way, anyway.
Moral of the story: I never wanted a pus pocket again. I started actively (aggressively) pursuing a dentist—the cleanings, the consultations, and, if all went well, the surgery.
The Road to Everything They Told Me About
I begin with whatever they’ll give me. It’s not a cleaning. It’s not a consultation for surgery. It’s a very brief appointment where I sit in a dentist’s chair, allow x-rays to be taken, and voice my concerns. I’m a bit befuddled that they need to see my wisdom teeth via x-ray. Do they not believe they’re there? Do they think I could have possibly forgotten I already had them removed? Is this the fate of those who remove their wisdom teeth—endlessly making appointments to have their phantom wisdom teeth removed, only to be sat down in the chair and told: There are no teeth there. Just bottomless holes.
I am told by the technicians and finally the dentist—who look at the x-rays and then into my mouth—that yes, I should get the teeth removed. I’m dismissed with an appointment for November for a cleaning and a referral (a half-sheet of paper with oral surgeons’ phone numbers listed).
I realize I’m supposed to call and make these appointments. It’s roughly September or October. Most of the phone numbers don’t work, and the surgeons listed are at facilities I already know won’t take my insurance.
But I do find one. The earliest I can get in is January—and that’s only for another consultation.
If you read my blog, then you know I went to Amsterdam last November. And plot twist! I missed my dentist appointment for the cleaning. When I return home, I’m able to reschedule it for Christmas Eve.
By the time my consultation comes around, I’m worried I won’t have insurance. Josh is finally done traveling. The band has decided to take the year off. I might actually get the chance to travel. Japan has its teeth in me. Do I really want to sacrifice my newfound freedoms and desires to lose my teeth?
No! It’s the responsible thing to do. My wise years demand it. Have I literally already forgotten about the pus pockets? Get the damn things out.
The consultation involves more x-rays, a short video, and a scribe and dentist both telling me that my age is a concern. After the age of 30, they don’t really know what to expect in terms of nerve damage or recovery.
I’m not sure what I’m being told, exactly.
But I’m a big girl, and I’m wise, and I’m following the advice of professionals. I’ve already done the things to get here. It’s January. I did the phone calls. I did the initial dentist appointment. I did the other phone calls. I did the cleaning. I did the consultation. I watched the video. I’m fucking here—what are we waiting for?
I’m scheduled for the removal of my wisdom in March.
I mean, my teeth.
My wisdom teeth.
I’m Going Somewhere!
My surgery is scheduled for March 25th. Because my coworkers are traveling in February and early March, I finagle almost a week off before the surgery. The idea of that week off—born from my own ingenuity—spreads like a different kind of infection. I begin to wonder if I could make this a monthly thing. Maybe I could work seven days on, then have seven days off. I just need to find someone who doesn’t work during any of my shifts. I need a deal with the devil.
I’m about to be very unwise. It’s best I make these deals with my wits about me.
A deal is struck.
My coworker is a great guy. He brings souvenirs to the station from his trip home to Ghana. A wooden, Ghana-shaped keychain now hangs from my bookshelf. He works nights, and I work midday. Our schedules align just enough that I could work most of his week, and he could work most of mine.
The plan: I’ll work eight days in a row to get six days off, alternating with him. (There’s one shift we both work that we can’t swap.)
This new schedule will begin in April, after my surgery. Because I’m a strong, healthy adult—and the surgeons said recovery would take about three days. That seems reasonable to me. I’ll be good to travel the world after that.
So I have my days off before the surgery, and I decide—because I don’t have any money—I’ll invite my mom. She might pay for things.
“Where Do You Want to Go, Mom?”
Now, before you come at me with those ruminations about why I can’t ever decide where I want to go—or why I don’t think more about what I want—let me say this: my mother just bought a new house, for no other reason than she liked the neighborhood and it was a good deal.
As soon as she moved into said house, she discovered that the previous owners and inspectors had lied about flooding in the crawlspace. She then spent money she “didn’t have” to fix the flooding problem. She’s had a rough start to the year, and she really wants to go somewhere.
And I can’t offer her anything other than mostly free flights.
She offers to split the cost of a trip.
She tells me she wants to go to Hawaii. At first, flight availability looks great. Hotels, on the other hand, look terrible. Just terrible. I start looking at hostels and convince my mom to save some money by spending our time in Hawaii with hip, international travelers who also have no money. Half of a hotel is still more expensive than a bed in a hostel. Mom is intrigued. She loves saving money as much as the next loon who buys a new house for fun.
But within days of planning the Hawaii trip, flight availability starts drying up. I cannot miss the flight home. I cannot miss this surgery that I’ve worked so hard—and waited so long—for.
So we change gears and choose Banff National Park. It’s a bucket-list destination for both of us. I envision bright blue lakes and jagged Rocky Mountain peaks. Hotels are reasonable. Flights are wide open. Mom loves a bucket-list destination, ergo she’s in.
It’s a win-win.
I Hope Canada Doesn’t Hold the American Tariff Threats Against Me
There’s a sliver of fear that Canada is turning on Americans. Is it safe?
What am I thinking? Of course it’s safe. It’s Canada. It’s not America.
I begin this trip prepared—with snacks. My bag is almost entirely Tupperware filled with quasi-non-perishable food: olives, cheese, pepperoni. We fly out early and score first class to Chicago. Our connection is a few hours, and we get split up on the flight to Calgary, which is three hours long—and I can’t believe they don’t feed us. But it’s fine. I have snacks.
When we land, I’m in charge of getting us to Banff. It’s about an hour’s drive. We could rent a car, but it’s still on the fringe of winter in Banff, and everything I read online tells me public transportation is great, parking is limited, and several roads in the park are closed to personal vehicles anyway.
So, we have options:
- Pay $75 per person for a 90-minute airport shuttle with comfy seats, power outlets, and Wi-Fi.
- Or take a $3, 45-minute bus to Calgary’s city center, then a $13, 120-minute bus to Banff with a stop in Canmore.
You already know which path we choose, don’t you?
Now, to defend our frugality—we’ve never seen Calgary or Canmore. What if they’re amazing? The day’s already spent. Let us be cheap and moderately lazy on the way there.
Plot twist: Calgary is not amazing. At least not in the 20 minutes we give ourselves to catch the bus to Banff. When we finally find the “bus stop,” it’s in the middle of a sketchy pay-for-parking lot behind an abandoned, graffiti-covered building. We’re greeted by our driver, who’s on the phone with a tow truck, trying to get a car removed from a no-parking zone. He insists he can’t pull the bus past it.
Spoiler: the bus pulls past it anyway. But hey—no parking means no parking!
The ride into the mountains is gorgeous. My mother and I are that insufferable duo holding our phones high over the seatbacks, snapping mediocre photos through windows with glare. Most other passengers are asleep. This is their commute. People like us? We’re usually on the $75 shuttle.
We arrive in Banff a couple of hours before sunset. I’m the navigator, of course, leading us to our hotel while my mom straggles behind, phone held horizontally above her head, capturing the almost insulting beauty of this town tucked into the most aggressive Rocky Mountains I’ve ever seen. The peaks rise from Banff’s downtown like jagged, broken teeth—unyielding to any soft-food diet.
First impression of Banff: It’s adorable. So damn perfect and manicured. I want to praise Canadians for taking such good care of their nice things. This is how it’s done!
Second impression: It’s very, very cold.
I have many more impressions, but they’re being interrupted and buried by my new responsibility: getting my mother through the streets without her falling on ice, getting hit by a car, or causing me to throw myself into traffic from the frustration of navigating a grown woman who insists on walking around with her phone in camera mode.
Our lodge is charming, a bit outdated, and tucked at the edge of town. There are maps and a concierge in the lobby. We entomb ourselves in more layers and return to the city to wander and hopefully find dinner.
Every other storefront is a souvenir shop. There are restaurants, but even after the currency exchange, everything is suspiciously priced like no actual locals eat here. I’m picking up on clues: this town might be a farce.
Mom can’t resist a souvenir. She brings something back for everyone. I wander through racks of Banff sweaters, unconvinced I’ll buy anything—but I am becoming famished.
I ask Mom what she wants to eat. She says, “Whatever you want.”
I remind her she’s the picky one, so she should choose.
She replies, again, “Whatever you want.”
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat. Kill me.
I temper my frustration (it’s been a long day—I’m out of energy and social grace, forgive me) and ask her to please decide, so I don’t have to. My executive functioning has clocked out. I got us here, didn’t I? I will eat literally anything.
We keep walking until she spots an Irish pub. Because of course a Canadian mountain town has an Irish pub. That makes complete sense.
We both order a beer and toast to the fact that we’ve arrived. The food is excellent. We can’t finish it, so they send us off with takeout boxes.
We walk back to the hotel in the frigid night. Finally, those jagged molars in the sky aren’t accosting the sun or my peripheral vision. We collapse onto the beds and, in the glow of hotel programming, stare at paper maps and our tiny screens—now with a little more understanding of what the next day will bring (cold)—and start making a plan.
Banff, in the Off-Season
We splurge on the all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast. It’s pricey, but the food is abundant and delicious. We’ll need the calories to shiver off in this brutal climate.
Leaving the warmth of the hotel, we’re greeted by craggy peaks, icy roads, and—to my surprise—magpies!
“Good morning, captain!” I say, quoting Top Gear. It’s a way to turn the bad luck of spotting a lone magpie into good fortune. The birds are much bigger than I expected. I greet as many as I can while we walk through the small, tidy town of Banff, headed for the tourist center.
We purchase our National Park and bus passes, snap pictures of the route maps, and make our plan. Lake Louise is on the list, but it’s a full-day excursion, so we decide to start small: Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel, Bow Falls, the Banff Trading Post, Hoodoos Viewpoint, the Banff Upper Hot Springs, maybe the gondola—and definitely the Grizzly House.
I blame Dunston Checks In for my fascination with grand hotels. Ever since watching it, the idea of staying in—or at least wandering—the halls of an opulent hotel has been burned into my psyche. If a city has one, like the Omni Grove in Asheville or Mountain Lake Lodge from Dirty Dancing, I have to explore. These hotels are usually $600+ a night, with spas, luxury shops, multiple restaurants, and secret entrances for gold or plutonium-tier guests. The Fairmont is no exception. I don’t know what parts are open to non-guests, but I’m not afraid to ask.
We enter through a rather plain lobby. I approach the concierge and ask where non-guests are allowed. She winces slightly while drawing on a map. “There are some shops down this hallway,” she says, pointing to a passage that resembles a cave. We ask about a walking path to Bow Falls. Another twitch. “It’s a bit complicated and possibly icy,” she warns. We tell her we don’t mind.
With map in hand, we begin our lackluster self-guided tour of the least glamorous parts of this grand hotel. We pass overpriced boutiques and, possibly illegally, end up in a grand ballroom. There are signs for private events, but the space is empty. We peek through towering windows, ride an elevator just for fun, and exit out the front toward Bow Falls.
The path is more treacherous than anticipated. I have winter-ish shoes, but not ones built for icy steps. We inch down like baby deer. Mom questions if I know where I’m going. I remind her: Of course I don’t—I’ve never been here. We’re both figuring this out as we go.
Can you tell I’m tired of being both navigator and the defender of my navigation?
We scoot our way down and eventually arrive at what appears to be a frozen-over river. It takes us a minute to realize the waterfall is there, disguised in a wall of white. We can hear it but not see it—until we finally do, nestled between snow-covered trees.
Our map offers two options: walk the riverside trail to downtown Banff (possibly hazardous) or return to the hotel and catch a bus to the Trading Post (definitely perilous).
Mom leans toward walking. It’s only 1.5 miles. It’s also only 22°F.
I keep my gloves on and resist the urge to take pictures. The trail is quiet, with birdsong and the sound of the river running beneath its icy shell. Half the path is smooth and serene; the other half, jagged and precarious. When we finally round a corner and see the bridge into Banff, I pull out my phone to take a selfie—only for it to shut down from the cold.
Thankfully, the Trading Post is just a few hundred feet away. We head in to warm up and look around. I’m thrilled to find the “merman”—a bizarre taxidermy mix of fish and hairy humanoid, displayed next to moccasins and books about land spirits. I buy a magnet, sticker, and postcard. I live for this kind of weird.
We return to the hotel to rest, charge phones, and eat leftovers from the Irish pub with apples we smuggled from breakfast. Back downtown, we poke into a Canadian dollar store—Dollarama. Spoiler: it’s not actually a dollar. More like a Canadian Dollar General. Functional, but not local. Still, we grab jerky and chocolate before catching the bus to a lookout spot.
The Tunnel Mountain route is odd in winter. Some stops are drop-off only. I worry about being stranded on a snowy hillside, but we take the risk.
We disembark near a hotel and campground but find no visible trailhead to the Hoodoos. Just vague squiggles on a map. We wander into a reception office. “Is there a trail with a scenic view nearby?” we ask. Confused nodding. “You can walk along the road.”
It’s a short walk to a turnoff with a small view—a narrow gap in the trees with the same mountain range we’ve seen from town. It’s… fine. Two minutes later, we’re back at the road, waiting with backpackers for the return bus. The driver, apologetic now, doesn’t even scan our passes. It’s unlimited-use, but the gesture is appreciated.
Next up: Banff Upper Hot Springs. We ride with high schoolers full of energy and chaos. A woman nearly trips over their hockey sticks. She curses. They laugh. Ah, youth.
Before the springs, we check out the gondola. Tickets are $70 per person, and it doesn’t take a conversation to decide: hard pass. We take photos and follow a short trail to the springs instead.
The hot springs are, unfortunately, a lie. The pool is small, crowded, and currently filled with chlorinated tap water due to frozen mountain rivers. Still $25 per person. The view from the observation deck, however, is stunning—and free. We linger there instead.
I buy a “May the Forest Be With You” Star Wars–themed magnet for Josh. I can stoop no lower.
Exhausted and frozen, we return to town, hungry and with one last mission: dinner at The Grizzly House. The infamous fondue spot is kitschy and dark, with a legacy of hedonism and a wall phone for flirting with other tables. We score the last table—always just barely lucky.
It’s tucked by the kitchen and bathrooms, but it’s table 42—my favorite number, the answer to the ultimate question. I pocket the paper placemat featuring doodles and quotes before it gets stained.
The meal is decent. Raw meat and veggies cooked on a hot stone. The best part is the sauces.
Afterward, we try to catch the sunset but fail—clouds and cold defeat us. We head back to the hotel early. I check flights and suddenly, things get complicated. We planned to leave Friday, but flights look bad. If we wait, we might be stuck until Saturday.
I ask Mom, “Any chance you’d be willing to go home tomorrow?”
She’s surprised. What about Lake Louise? What about the rest of Banff? But she hears the part that matters: the earlier we leave, the less likely we are to get stranded.
Success tomorrow is better than disappointment the next day. A family motto. Take the single marshmallow. Forget the promise of two.
Mom agrees.
We book the 8 a.m. shuttle and get tickets for the second flight out—rookie mistake, but it’s what we’ve got.
And, End Scene.
It’s as if I have switched off. Powered down.
The ride to the airport is me at my worst. Mom tries to make small talk, but I can muster nothing but nods and the occasional single word. Not even the mountains, with their sharp pinnacles can penetrate my stand-by mode.
I don’t even think I’ll blog about this trip. What an uninspiring experience. Was it the winter? Was it the too-short time? Was it my frugality? Was it the sneaking suspicion that this town was built over night as a tourist trap for Americans?
It must be my fault. Or my ancestor’s fault. Banff is probably wonderful in the summer. I have just chosen wrong. The young adult inside me—who loves Canada and the Mountains—knows there are trails to hike, mountains to climb, and lakes to marvel at. But in the winter, when half the park is closed, the poorly paid, over extended, thirsty for awe middle-aged adult inside me feels swindled.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish we had gone to Hawaii.
Now I have to go home and suffer more winter. And that’s if I’m lucky and the plane gods find favor with me.
The shuttle drops us off at the airport a couple of hours before our flight. I smoke cigarettes outside before we go through security. We walk the length of the airport to our gate, which is empty, then all the way back to the food court for Burger King. I check the seat counts again.
Chicago—our scheduled flight—has one seat. Dallas, the flight scheduled for 30 minutes earlier, also has one.
Well, fuck.
We walk back to the end of the airport, to our gate—which, as it turns out, is the gate for both flights. I wait in line for the Dallas flight to speak to an agent. They’re having trouble getting their computers started and logging into the system we use to board flights. When they finally get to me, I admit that if they can’t open the program, they probably can’t help me.
They ask what I need.
I tell them I need to know if there are seats on the Dallas flight. One app shows two, but my company portal shows one. They tell me there are no seats, and that all the standbys are already cleared. I ask if I can be transferred to the flight anyway, in case someone doesn’t show up. They tell me to do it myself.
This is quasi-nonsensical, because the only way to do it myself is to cancel my reservation and make a new one—which isn’t a big deal, except that it puts me at the bottom of the priority list. I’m also looking at the next segments: only one seat from Chicago to home, but fourteen seats from Dallas. Best-case scenario: we split up.
They’re obviously too busy to help me, so I cancel my reservation just as they’re boarding. I make a new one for me—and one for Mom—on Dallas.
But I’ve messed up. It’s too close to departure time to check myself in. I have to go back to the gate and ask them to check me in manually, while boarding is already in progress.
I have been at the gate end of this and it’s the worst. People trying to board planes with out seat assignments, and without boarding passes—without having checked in for their flight. It’s the worst.
I wait until near the end, tracking the seat count. Five seats available. No one in the boarding area. I ask them to check mom and I in for the Dallas flight.
They’re radioing agents at the ticket counter. A family of four is sprinting from security to the gate.
Well, fuck.
There’s one seat left. I tell Mom to get on the Chicago flight and text me when she lands. I waltz onto the Dallas plane.
Again: a three-hour flight, and no meal. Egregious.
I land in Dallas and hear from Mom within minutes. She’s landed in Chicago. Suddenly, there are 11 seats available on her connection. She’s even found a friend from Kentucky heading to the same gate. I finally exhale in the Dallas airport. I eat leftover snacks from my purse. My flight home is still wide open. I even have the audacity to request a left-side window seat—so I can look for my neighborhood as we land. The request is granted. I am the only standby.
Mom’s flight, which should have arrived an hour ahead of mine, is delayed. And delayed again. When I land, I greet coworkers, walk from one gate to the next, and greet my mother as she disembarks.
There’s a moment of feeling victorious. We did it.
As if the whole trip was against our free will. As if the time away was a captivity we’ve finally escaped.
It doesn’t make sense to me, either.
Look how beautiful Banff is! Why, oh why, have I returned home as if I barely made it out alive?
At least now, I have a major, almost-too-late-in-life surgery to look forward to.
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