elizabethlevett

(Trigger warning… Photo by Ed Summerfield)

“I take care of my teeth.” This is what someone said to me in the staff room one day. I’d just mentioned my recent oral surgery. I’d come in for coffee. I got advice. As if it has never occurred to me. Showing up to teach little kids with a sore jaw is tough enough. And misplaced advice is never helpful. Yet sometimes we throw it out there at the worst possible times. We seem to like guilt. We blame people without money for not saving and gossip that our beautiful, plus-sized friends could stand to lose a few pounds. None of this is our business and most of our advice is neither welcome nor even appropriate. Some things we can help, some things are just plain luck. You never know.

I take religious care of my teeth and gums. I’m a flossing fool, a brushing champ, a compulsive user of those little go-between brushes. My mother had been a dental tech in the Navy. She kept a pointy medal probe at hand always in case she spotted some pesky tartar while staring at one of us over her little half glasses. Imagine, you’re twelve or even twenty and you’re trying to impress your mom with some recent achievement or maybe pour out your troubles in the hopes of a sympathetic ear. She wasn’t listening. She was focused on my teeth. “Hold still a minute and let me just get that…” My mom always advised me to take good care of my teeth. Growing up at the business end of a dental probe, I listened.

I was that lucky kid in the family, the one who never needed a filling, wouldn’t need braces. I had it made. My luck changed on a Sunday afternoon when I was thirteen and decided to sail down a big hill on my bike. No hands. Near the bottom of the hill there was a speed bump with a little opening in the center. I could navigate through it without a care. I’d lean just so, balancing like a seagull over a wave. On this Sunday though, my front wheel began to wobble just a tiny bit and suddenly I was on the ground picking up teeth. I left my poor broken bicycle for some nice neighbors to look after, but I brought my teeth home. Mom snatched them from my upturned palm and stirred them up in a solution of salt water. She said it would keep them alive. What?! Navy training? How she got Dr. Gaines to show up on a Sunday is a mystery. He jammed three front teeth back into their respective sockets and secured them with a hell scape of wire and tartar-colored cement. Presumably this was to hold everything in place and match the color of my teeth.

You know that moment when you were thirteen and you wondered if you had a shot at growing up to be reasonably good looking? I’d thought my chances were fairly good, after all, both of my sisters turned out pretty. For the better part of the school year I walked around with a chipped tooth right up front, a bunch of funky wiring, and scars on my face. I was not smiling in my school picture.

But I grew up a little. My teeth hung tough for a few years and then decided to rebel. I got four root canals and crowns and was developing a very special kind of stoic pride. I could take it. I got to know dental office ceiling tiles very well from studying them for hours. Brush yourself off. Move on. Dr. Gaines said I’d be very lucky if I could keep those teeth for a few years. Luckier still, I kept them for twenty-five.

“Get good dental insurance,” Mom said. Eventually those four teeth couldn’t hold on anymore. When you’re five or six, a “wiggly tooth” is thrilling. When you’re in your thirties, not so much. Again, I found myself staring at the ceiling and only figuratively gritting my teeth. Also, since the original implant procedure was performed on an immature little face, my smile had become slanted. The bone hadn’t grown downward on one side. You could see it in pictures from those days – and I was self-conscious about it. “You should smile more!” guys would say. Unwelcome advice. I would have to have a bone graft. Like, from a real oral surgeon. This was something I’d never considered and, once it was done, something I never wanted to do again. I love my dentist. The oral surgeon, I was not at all fond of. Four extractions were done over the course of several months, so I got to wear a series of temporary bridges. A temporary bridge, also called a flipper, is a nasty, uncomfortable little device. Eventually though, after the bone graft was healed, my prince of a dentist gave me a gorgeous, fixed bridge. Yay! End of story, you may be hoping. So was I.

Middle age. Now there is a sobering thought. I wanted to meet my fifties like a champ – tan, stomach still almost flat, not unattractive in good light. And I started seeing the dentist for cleaning and exams three times a year. But there is a twist to the mad tale of mid-life for some folks in my gene pool. Bone loss. Who knew? Suddenly, perfectly healthy teeth, teeth I’ve nurtured, brushed, flossed like crazy, teeth I’ve been proud of, these very same teeth, are suddenly without a strong foundation. They have nowhere to go but out.

Yes, I felt like a piano that hadn’t been used quite right. And yes, I almost lost a flipper when, after wrapping it in a napkin, I mistakenly dropped it into the compost bin at work. (“Yes, I am going through the compost bin!”) And, for some reason, I got hassled on the bus coming home from the dentist one late afternoon by a gnarly looking guy with several teeth missing. (Not a bad person. A person without a good dentist. A person without good dental insurance.) I think he told me I should smile more.

I returned to my friend, the oral surgeon for a massive bone graft. But things had changed over the years. He was much friendlier, had a nicer office, and spent a good deal of time explaining things and prepping me. He’d come up in the world. (These things are expensive.) He gave me a little packet of pills to take – including a my very first valium. “Why do I need to take those?” asked the aging innocent. “So that I can get you into the chair.” Side note, it turns out I’m hilarious on drugs. Was singing Stevie Nicks all the way there in the car and then in the waiting room. “Ooh, baby, ooh, said ooh.”

Once I paid the bill and went home with my ice pack, my antibiotics, and my gauze, it was pretty much all about healing. Oh yeah, and not going anywhere because my face was swollen and bruised. But again, I’m fortunate. My husband makes wonderful soups and keeps ice cream around, so the coffee won’t be too hot. After a few weeks I returned for the implants – metal posts they drive in your newly healed jawbone. (While under light anesthesia, I swear I heard him say, “Hand me that torque wrench!” and heard a loud clank on the little tray under my chin. Torque wrench? What other selections from the old tool shed are jammed into my mouth right now??)

You’d think our heroine would have had enough of dental rigamarole at this point and I must say, that was my sincerest hope. But it turns out this whole scene has played out again. My dentist is wonderful and I’m even getting along better with my oral surgeon. Last time he was about to put me under I asked him if I’d be able to play saxophone when it was over. (He can take a joke.) There are comforts too, I remembered that recovering from oral surgery is the perfect excuse for putting ice cream in your coffee, and a smoothie is a wonderful thing. Plus, you can order a side of guacamole and eat it all yourself. “Sorry, I can’t really chew anything right now…” Turns out I am lucky. But please, if I happen to mention that I’ve just had oral surgery, had to have an extraction and another bone graft, please don’t be one of those people who tell me that they take care of their teeth. I don’t really need the advice. I just came for a cup of coffee. Also, is there any ice cream??