Manifest Dentistry

I just brushed a couple of my teeth this morning for probably the last time. Who am I kidding? I’ll probably brush them again in a little while, for auld lang syne.

I’ve been compartmentalizing this afternoon’s dental appointment all week. Went in last week to get a couple of minor cavities filled and my 6-month cleaning, but as so frequently happens, much greater devastation was uncovered. A full battery of x-rays revealed a number of red-flag areas, including two so bad they needed to be dealt with right away.

And by dealt with, I mean probable extractions.

Let me explain. I made a lot of poor lifestyle choices along the way to where I am now. Meth. Mountain Dew. An at-best casual acquaintance with ongoing dental hygiene. More Mountain Dew. I’ve written about this just recently. I guess this is kind of a follow-up on that report.

Here’s the headline to that follow-up: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

The Boy has been just incredible about stopping the thumb-sucking cold. Bam, just like that. Now when he watches TV he kinda scratches at his upper lip and chin with his thumb and forefinger. If that replacement behavior lasts much longer I’m going to have to do something about it, too. It’s okay to have tics, but proper chaps have the courtesy to limit theirs to ones that can be easily concealed in the presence of company.

But it’s like he just flipped a switch off. I swear to God, nothing would make me happier than to discover my son didn’t inherit my addictive personality. Honestly.

And I have been off all carbonated beverages for one week today. By which I mean Mountain Dew. Even been to a few restaurants that were Pepsi venues (as opposed to Coke, God forbid any place offer both!) and had water or lemonade instead. I’ve dealt with the caffeine withdrawal (I don’t do headaches gracefully) by gobbling two Excedrin every morning; today I start a week of one Excedrin every morning, after which I intend to step down to zero. So far so good on that front.

But I only had my Come To Jesus Moment with soda pop (oh yeah, and chewing gum, which I used to chew a ton of) after last week’s catastrophic dental examination.

When the dentist got all depressed, looking at the x-ray results, I started to get worried. Then she’s poking individual teeth and talking about “watching these,” but it’s with the air of the TV judge who is rendering a decision and always gets possible mitigating factors out of the way first before delivering the death penalty to the accused.

Right on cue, (“Bailiff, remove that man!”) she identified the pair of emergency situations—after I had heard her discussing with her assistant earlier about what deep roots my teeth have—that would likely lead to extractions. One of which, coupled with all my other missing teeth, she worried might make it difficult for me to chew, and the other one perilously close to the front.

Although I don’t have access to my actual dental x-rays, I found an image online that comes pretty close:

And that’s when I decided, when I knew for a fact it was too late to do anything to salvage my oral health, to quit doing the rest of the things that had directly contributed to its unnecessary annihilation. Now that it was strictly a matter of principle, I figured I could do it.

Thank God I didn’t wait for my liver to fail to quit drinking. What a fucking idiot. My little sister hasn’t been to a dentist in decades and her teeth are rotting and falling out, just like mine, and it hasn’t cost her a cent. Who’s the Smart Guy now, Fang?

What a fucking idiot.

So now I’m frittering away the morning writing this before I go in and whatever happens, happens. I will leave instructions with my lovely wife, Dr. The Missus, regarding what to tell the dentist to do in the event this happens or that happens. Because my current dentist doesn’t offer gas to help calm the nerves, I’m forced to drug myself silly beforehand. And I still have a deathgrip on the arm of the chair the entire time and I still remember every minute of the pain afterwards. Just the same, communication becomes very difficult about an hour into a procedure of this scale.

It’s a terrible, stupid, embarrassing and expensive thing I’ve done to myself. And I’ve spread a lot of the embarrassment and expense around to my wife, to whom I apologize.

I’m so goddamned sick of this slow, painful death by a thousand extractions. I want someone who will just knock my ass out, remove whatever remains, and give me a couple of full plates like my dear old Daddy had. If I could take my teeth out every night, I’d do a lot better job of taking care of them. Maybe in the new town we’ll find the resources, and the dentist, who can make that happen.

Until then, though, for all my crimes and misdemeanors against my own teeth [drum roll, please], let this be my dentistry.