It's Personal: Teeth

RIP Art in All Its Forms. I tried it for a couple months. But the topic didn't excite me. Yes, I reviewed a few movies. And I even tried to breach the realm of painting a few times. In the end, it felt - for the most part - too forced.

I have taken a step back. In the glimpse I've taken of the blog, I realize that I have backed away from the personal aspect of this life in days. I will therefore re-inject the personal on Mondays. Tidbits about me, past and present.

Tonight, I give you teeth. My teeth. As you've probably guessed, I'll 'splain.

I was six. I visited some overly friendly dentist on the Wallingford - Meriden line. He found a cavity. I was too young to understand what that meant. What my parents - and the dentist - did pound into my brain was that it was the result of the junk food I ate.

Based on the medieval three-day - it seemed like it to a young kid - procedure that included multiple metal tools used in ancient torture, the dentist filled my first cavity. I still have nightmares. But I also have a particularly short memory. And so I kept eating junk food.

I also learned to avoid the dentist at virtually all costs. It got so bad during my childhood that the dentist would no longer allow my brother and me to come on Saturdays because we canceled so often.

Fast forward to middle school. A certain Dr. Paul Rigali had my parents come in with the 'specimens', namely my brother and me. My brother with his underbite and I with some of my crooked teeth were optimal mouths for bracing. Metal wires used in countless machines used in factories around the world were wrapped in and around brackets that were super-glued to each one of my teeth. Honestly? And then we'd have to go back every so often to ensure that they were tight enough. Because they had to pull those teeth together.

I challenge any one of you to have your braces tightened right before a football practice during which you are hit in the head at least 476 times.

Not to mention the Old Man - prior to the procedure that neither my brother nor I really wanted - claimed that each of us could claim the rest of our body after the age of 18 but that the teeth were his until we respectively turned 99 years of age. I suppose that's because he almost had to take a second mortgage out of his house to ensure that the orthodontist yanked on the scrap metal in our teeth as hard as he could.

During that unbelievably painful episode, the orthodontist suggested that I get my wisdom teeth extracted. He said it was better to do it when I was young. And however much I agreed, I was tired of the whole 'metal instruments of death in my mouth' thing. Not to mention that the extraction was rather expensive.

During my sophomore year of high school, the orthodontist removed the braces. Thank God. But, he had one parting gift for me as he removed them. Clink, clink, clink came off the scrap metal. Utter relief. And then he started sanding. SANDING! Had to get the superglue off, after all. There he was with his tiny piece of sandpaper attached to a tiny sander buzzing away at each tooth in my mouth. I tasted tooth dust for a month. Not to mention the fact that he hit nerves. Literally.

I wore a retainer. And yet, my teeth began to move back to their original positions. So, I wore the retainer more. And it began to hurt. So, I stopped. And I was annoyed. And I cursed all orthodontists.

Again, I spent time avoiding dentists. One of my last visits for a long, long time came during my senior year of high school. They found a cavity.

I can't honestly remember another dentist visit between that last visit and my journey out to Seattle. Whether because I just put it out of my head or because it just didn't happen, I can't tell for certain.

I finally went to my first appointment in Seattle. The Medical Dental Building. Some guy who was trying to get me to donate monies to Howard Dean for said Democrat's presidential run. I wasn't interested. And I didn't really like the dentist either. They found a cavity that go-round. Surprise, surprise. Then they told me I should get my wisdom teeth out. He referred me to an oral surgeon in the building. I walked into the oral surgeon's office, saw that there was no one at the front desk, and never returned.

Joseph found another dentist for us. A Dr. Stark also in the Medical Dental Building. He reminded me a little of Egon. AKA Harold Ramis. A good demeanor. And seemingly knew what he was doing. During my first visit, he told me I needed to have my wisdom teeth extracted. That I needed to have work on my receding gums. And that I had a cavity. Duh.

I returned to get the cavity filled. Then, Dr. Stark pulled a fast one. He said he could remove the wisdom teeth; he was more than just a dentist. I didn't have a good excuse. They scheduled the appointment.

I canceled that appointment and waited in utter horror.

I went back for a cleaning. He told me I needed to get my wisdom teeth pulled. Damn. Why couldn't they just fall out? Like my hair...

I made an appointment and kept it. My stomach tied itself into knots. In fact, I think there might have been an entire group of new knot-learning midshipmen in my stomach. I arrived that morning and laid in the chair. The needle first. Then I went into shock as my headphones played absurd music into my ears. He started drilling. He said oops a few times. And oh man. And a few other things you NEVER want a dentist to say while working in your mouth. Why? Because my wisdom teeth were so badly impacted that he had to break them in their respective sockets and pull each piece one at a time. The happy drugs lasted about four hours. Unfortunately, the surgery lasted just a tad longer. And thus I felt him - I mean felt, felt - drill and extract the final pieces of the final tooth.

Suffice it to say I had vicodin for just about a month after that. I had to request two refills. I think I can take pain rather well. I've broken limbs - not like my brother, broken but broken nonetheless. And I've been hit in the head 476 times after getting my braces tightened. I've even bit hit in the head by a golf club. But nothing compared to the pain I felt from having my wisdom teeth extracted. If you happen to know anyone in his / her teens who needs to have his / her wisdom teeth pulled, please tell him / her to make the appointment immediately. He / She will thank me.

For whatever reason, I went back for my scheduled cleaning six months later. Still a receding gum problem. But no wisdom teeth to pull. And no cavities. I felt as though I had gained a victory, even if Pyrrhic.

Almost two years later - no cavities - and I finally agreed to be tortured once again by the dentist. In said procedure, he ripped flesh from the roof of my mouth and sewed it to the remains of the gums that no longer covered the exposed roots of my teeth. As bad as that might sound, I needed vicodin only for two days after the procedure (as compared to 32 for the wisdom teeth). Granted, I can't eat much more than yogurt, scrambled eggs, and ice cream. But for anyone who knows me, an ice cream diet ain't all that bad.

Yeah, I'll go back to the dentist. I know it's in my best interest. I like my teeth, and I'd rather keep them a while longer.

Not to mention my father's still paying that second mortgage...