I pull into the oral surgeon's parking lot behind the paramedics.
Shit. This is not reassuring.
The staff greets me warmly. They know me well, I've been coming here for the last two and a half years. I'm pretty sure I am singlehandedly responsible for fat bonuses and vacations to Greece. Today is the final surgery in a major oral reconstruction that will run me, when all is said and done, over $40K.
...He places the gas mask over my nose. It is not sitting firmly enough; I strain my neck. I push my head up further on the chair in an attempt to make the mask sit flush against my skin. I don't want any air; only gas. I breathe deeply though my nose...
I am a loser in the genetic tooth lottery. I was born with a jaw that did not occlude well, soft teeth, a tendency to form tarter. Then there was bad dental care, avoidance of care, traumatic early experiences, a lack of (needed) orthodontia in my teens, years without insurance. I entered my forties with lost and broken teeth. Though not visible in my smile, my dental condition was a source of a deep and abiding sense of shame. Every tooth I lost had also had a root canal. I needed more serious intervention. l needed bone grafting, braces, root planing, extractions, implants, crowns.
..."You might feel a sting here" My eyes are clenched against catching any glimpse at all of the needle I know he is wielding. In my imagination it is impossibly long and large. I flash back to some time in my past: I was high, the car was moving too fast and recklessly; I'd crawled into my head. I'd thought of the beautifully written novel on my bedside at home. Surely I wasn't ready to leave a world with such beauty? I couldn't speak to make him slow down; I could only escape further into my head, turning over a perfectly wrought sentence I'd read the night before. It had made me feel anchored to the world. I looked for an anchor now. The quiet conversation I'd had with my son the night before, him in the passenger seat beside me talking in a low voice, sitting perfectly still, devoid of his usual fidgeting...
I must have done evil with my teeth in a past life. Possibly I was a piranha or maybe a lion?
The final straw in my dental degradation was breaking a tooth during a marathon. I had a good job and good insurance; no more excuses. I went to a dentist who suggested that the quickest fix was a "partial." This would be a piece of plastic with teeth on it that would go into a glass on my bedside at night.
Um, no. Not yet. I had just come to terms with the necessity of reading glasses in my life. I was not ready for removable teeth.
...I felt the needle puncture my cheek and willed myself to stay still, hands clenched under the drape. It was not a sting or a pinch but a more robust and full bodied pain. I couldn't think of the word for that. We only have words to minimize pain. I thought of how inappropriate the word "discomfort" was. I took yoga breaths. The epinephrine hit my system and I felt clenched, taught. I felt in danger of seizing or floating right off the chair. I sent my mind back to the night before...
...the car was gliding through the inky blackness towards the eerie lights of the refinery. The refinery always seemed oddly lifeless as if industry had eliminated the need for humans entirely. We were on the less traveled bridge; a long span that curves over the quiet side of the bay. At this time on a week night it is as silent as the Sierra after a snow storm. We were coming home after a hard and rewarding weight lifting session; confronting our fears at the barbell. Can I get this over my head? What if I fail? Lifting it anyway. The relaxation that follows a hard effort was already creeping into our bones; the satisfaction that follows facing down your fears was creeping into our heads, soothing anxiety. I was relaxed and happy, enjoying his company, enjoying this time we spend together every week. I was proud of his efforts in the gym; I do not want him to have to journey to hell to learn to take care of himself, like I did...
My dental staff and I (dentist, orthodontist, periodontist and oral surgeon) mapped out a treatment plan. It was to span almost three years and many thousand dollars; it required me to spend hours in the chair. I would start with getting my gums and teeth healthy; then braces; then implants. Six of them.
...I close my eyes and cannot help picturing myself laid out in the morgue. My person hood has receded, as it must in death. I am only a mouth, held open wide by some device. It feels huge and I am afraid my jaw will unhinge. I feel the surgeon hovering over me, a knee propped on the top of the chair, bent over his task like a demon. Putting his back into it. But when I open my eyes he is merely standing next to the chair, working at arms length...
...My boy is talking about "The Little Prince." I have not read the book since I was a child. I remember how much I liked the elephant in the snake and how, even then, I knew I there was a point and I was missing it. He says "The allegory is, well, to me, that the people he meets on the planets he visits represent man's sins or flaws." I stay silent, hoping he'll go on. "There is the man who thinks he is king of everything." He pauses. "Hubris." I say. "Exactly, and the guy who lights the lamp over and over; workaholism. And there is the alcoholic..." He need not explain, we have a deep mutual understanding of this human flaw...
Today, the doctor is placing the final three implants. In four months, they will get crowns and I will be done. I will again have a fully functional mouth. The braces and regular care has done wonders for my smile. I am no longer self conscious. I am also no longer afraid of the dental chair.
...the surgeon is screwing in the titanium screws. I feel my jawbone expand as he tightens down. I think, for the thousandth time since this all started, about how dentistry is such a rudimentary science; the tools it uses mimic those in my toolbox at home. He is screwing in the second one on the bottom, I feel more than I should, he is anchoring the screw below where the anesthesia went. I get a preview of how it will feel when the drugs wear off...
...The boy continues, "The Prince leads this simple life on his own planet, taking care of a rose. He is happier doing that than are any of those other people he meets, on other planets. I think it's about the difference between childhood and adulthood. How you lose something, imagination, when you become an adult..."
The assistant asks me how I'm feeling.
"A bit woozy." She looks at me.
"Queasy?"
"No. Woozy."
"Do you want some apple juice?" What? Is it spiked with methaphetamine?
"No, thanks." I have been in the chair for over 2 hours. I am desperate to leave this place.
"Ok, well I'll give you a minute and then you can..." She launches into a explanation for the third time on how I can start with over the counter meds for pain, how I must take the antibiotics every 8 hours, etc. etc. etc. I want her to shut up so I can go home and take my vicodin immediately.
I want to curl up with my dogs and my son and pretend that time is not passing.
