She is surprisingly strong for a little woman.
The dentist has her entire fist in my mouth. She is vigorously pushing down on every crowned tooth, checking for integrity.
Integrity has never been my strong suit. So, too, with my mouth full of expensive dental work. An old permanent bridge in the back, attached to two gold crowns, chooses that moment to give up the ghost. It jiggles a bit under pressure.
I crack under pressure, too. It happens.
I’m a docile dental patient. I do not say, “It would have been fine had you left it alone, you meddling over-zealous harpy.” She is a very good dentist, after all. And I learned long ago not to antagonize people with the power to hurt me.
“Did you know that was loose?” she asks. I do not say, “It wasn’t, until you dicked around with it.” I smile, drooling on my paper bib, and murmur that it’s news to me.
The news is not good. The front molar cannot be saved. It suffered a root canal decades ago. It is tired. It has developed fractures
— probably from being pushed on so hard. My night-time tension tooth-grinding has nothing to do with it. That front molar is ready to pass into the waiting arms of the Tooth Fairy.
The back molar is still OK “so far,” she cautions, with a surprised and doubtful tone.
So all that’s needed is a temporary crown on the doomed tooth, an extraction, two bone grafts, two implants, and a denture to fill in the gaping hole during the long and involved process.
Oh, and money.
I tell the dentist I’ve noticed that other women wear gold on their fingers rather than in their mouths. She laughs, and says mine has done me more good.
I only need one extraction, bone graft, and implant, so far. I meet with the oral surgeon on Monday.
Problems of luxury, for sure. I could be sitting on a log in the backwoods, chugging whiskey before the blacksmith yanks bad teeth out with pliers. Still, I sigh.
Second part of the Hippocratic Oath: “At least do no harm.” I’m not sure where putting one’s fist in your mouth fits into all that… So sorry about the infrastructural work. Hate the chopper works myself. Need to go though…
A family heritage of gum disease and no enamel removed these horrendous expenses at a young age. Fluoride and marriage to a wonderful mouth with room saved the smiles of my children .
My parents tell me I inherited good looks and intelligence, which ought to be enough. Strong teeth were not part of the equation.
“a temporary crown on the doomed tooth, an extraction, two bone grafts, two implants, and a denture to fill in the gaping hole.” These could be the lyrics to one of those “Christmas sucks” kind of songs. Just plug in the tune to “Twelve Days of Christmas” and you have an instant tribute to holiday woe. Fa-la-la-la-la!
Perfect! It could also work as a country song — all I need to add is a pick-up truck, a dog, a cheatin’ heart, and/or Jesus.