Monday, August 25, 2008 9:48 PM CDT
COLUMN: Domestic tranquillity shattered over issue of missing front tooth
By HARRY REYNOLDS, Editorial Page Editor
hreynolds@jg-tc.com
My wife and I skirmished Sunday over my missing front tooth. She said it made me look idiotic. She asked me once again if I had called the dentist. I replied I couldn't get in until Oct. 1.
"You just do that to make me mad," Doris snapped. "You're just like George."
My middle brother is five years younger. That makes him about 60. He's a good brother and he's cranky and argumentative at times.
I'm a sensitive guy.
"I don't have an appointment at the dentist until October. Besides, it doesn't hurt," I said quietly, sounding, I thought, like Henry Kissinger.
"You won't even call him to insist he get you in earlier," Doris said.
By the time we got to Pagliacci's (I like their meatloaf), we were barely speaking. But, we tried to be civil. Still, there remained a curtness of speech, an avoidance of eyes and terseness.
When a man and a woman mutually attempt to tamp down their urge to engage in heated verbiage in the name of domestic tranquillity, the result is similar to what happens before a volcano explodes.
The longer the pressure builds, the greater the blast.
I could tell Doris was still mad when she didn't give me any of her meatloaf. She asked the waitress for a carryout box. That's what it's called in polite society — a carryout box.
We used to call it a doggy bag, but that's not politically correct these days. It seems dogs think it demeans them.
Our dog doesn’t worry much about political correctness as long as she gets her double-cheeseburgers.
The tooth crisis was triggered by a popsicle. Specifically, a cherry popsicle. I bit down on it and broke one of my front incisors. The tooth was capped in 1983 after it was struck by a piece of concrete.
But, let's not go into that. Let's just say I shouldn't have been beating on a section of our sidewalk with a 16-pound sledge hammer.
The nerve got infected, but didn't go quietly. The dentist performed a root canal (one of any dentist's favorite activities). They use huge, dull needles to inject pain medication (which I'm convinced is watered down) at least 19 times.
We’re in the age of modern dentistry in which we are told the procedures are virtually painless. And that’s true when they’re drilling.
I don’t like being jabbed with needles so I take the pain rather than have the dentist give me additional shots when things start hurting.
They say pain can be a friend. I don’t think that’s true. I’ve never met a pain I wanted to buy a drink for.
Dentists generally like to talk about politics, sports, golf and the meaning of the universe. The intention, quite obviously, is to divert the patient's mind. I once had a dentist who conversed while all his instruments were crammed into my mouth.
As the drool fell like water going over the Niagara, I tried to reply to his questions: "Ahmm, cangue taugummm wiguhhm auu tsstuugh ihg maah mouthum."
Dentistry has come a long way from the days when teeth were yanked out of a patient's mouth bereft of pain killers other than booze.
My mother told me when she was a child, a dentist pulled the nerve out of a tooth. People talk about the good old days, but there's nothing good about good old dentistry. I tried to think of that when my dentist is using my gums as a pin cushion.
When I was a child you only went to the doctor if you were seriously ill. Today, people rush to the emergency room for treatment of minor ailments like heart attacks, strokes and appendicitis.
If you were injured, but still breathing, mom would administrate a dose of cod liver oil, wash the wounds and pour iodine on them.
My first visit to the dentist came when the hole in one of my molars was as deep as the Grand Canyon. He shot me up and drilled. The sound and vibration reminded me of a jack hammer.
Drills they use today operate at far greater speeds, reducing the vibration and grinding sound.
I got in to see my dentist, Dr. Khin Laij, Monday. I’m one of his favorite patients. When he took me on as a patient a number of years ago, I had more craters than the moon.
I come from a family with bad teeth. Doris comes from a family that knows no cavities. Both my son J.L. and daughter Michelle have good teeth. Michelle brushes hers regularly, use dental floss and visits the dentist for checkups and to have her teeth cleaned.
J.L., on the other hand, made his way through childhood rarely brushing only when forced to. He thought dental floss was fishing line.
Laij managed to fix the broken tooth — temporarily. It looks pretty but he advised me not to put much pressure on it.
Doris is happy. When Doris is happy, I’m happy.
Well, not really. Not in this case.
After I’ve made a good impression on the relatives at the Martin family picnic this weekend, Laij will be working his magic.
The plan as I understand it calls for removing the rest of the tooth, drilling a hole into my bone, implanting a post and letting it cure for six to eight months before installing one of those man-made wonders.
By the time all my dental work is done and my teeth are perfect, they’ll be writing my obit.
A thousand years from now I’ll be dug up. I’ll be dust and bone, but my teeth — they’ll be the jewel of the museum.
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Read all over wrote on Aug 26, 2008 8:36 AM: