Here we are again. I'm here for my weekly therapeutic blog dump. Stand back, all four of you blogbots, so you don't get spattered. Urp. Hm. Tastes like chicken. The theme of this week is teeth. Like, mainly, how annoying it is that they don't heal themselves. My car's check engine light actually has a better chance of self-healing (as long as I give it decent gasoline) than my teeth do. How come bones can heal but teeth can't, riddle me this.
After so long of chewing on empty air, I thought, it's past time to get a bridge over the yawning chasm. It would be nice to chew food there again, if possible. Besides, the two teeth on either side were cracked and in need of crowns anyway, and insurance was paying for half, so I figured now was the time.
On Monday I coughed and moaned like the stoic trooper I am while the dentist and his assistant did their best to choke me with my own spit. After two hours of grinding, I came away with a white blob of something that resembles silly putty covering the two brutalized teeth and the gap in between. It hurt for a day and then stopped hurting, and I thought, yay. Then it started hurting again, and now it feels like a squabble of angry worms are drilling tunnels through my jaw. It took a trip to the storage unit, but thank god, I found my acetaminophen and ibuprofen, yay, so the worms are sedated to a sluggish writhing.
My friend noticed I seemed a bit under the weather on a recent Zoom call. Her partner is a retired medical professional, which means he has lots of knowledge and even more opinions. I appreciate both. He suggested I call the emergency after-hours number. I stared at the phone for a while, feeling reluctant to admit I might need some help. Finally, I called the office number, got the office recording, and wrote down the emergency number. After the beep, I left a whiny message. I don't feel so good. Then I sat around moping for a bit, wondering if this amount of pain constitutes a "true dental emergency," which is the requirement before you call the after-hours desperation hotline. However, I knew my friend would be checking on me, and I sure didn't want to be scolded by the medical professional partner for being too stoic, so I called the emergency number. I got a recorded message from my actual dentist himself. I was kind of relieved. I imagined he was out enjoying a lovely meal with this wife or maybe resting up for another week of jamming his hands into slobbery mouths. I would have been flustered if he had answered the phone in person. Sorry to bother.
So far, no call back.
Part of me is like, well, this is how it goes for me. Life comes at me swinging, and I either cave or pretend to cave and then pop up like a bobo doll, smirking I know you are but what am I. Right now I feel kind of crappy so I don't have the energy to bounce back to my feet. I'm more like a beached humpback whale, rolling with the flow and hoping the tide and a few valiant surfers will shove me back out to sea.
I will feel better eventually, I am predicting, and then I can get back to the all-important task of jumping off a cliff. Eyes on the prize, people.
