Cause everybody likes to read about somebody else’s tooth misery, amirite?
Last February, I had a root canal done. Not the high point of anyone’s afternoon probably, but not a really big deal either. The whole sorry mess was caused by a largish hole that had appeared in my jaw around the roots of one of my molars. At the end of the procedure, the dentist casually mentioned that he had packed antibiotics in the hole and I was to return in a couple of months to see if they had done their stuff and healed up the hole.
I went in, he looked at the new x-ray and announced in mournful tones that the antibiotics had not done much and that we would have to try again. He removed the temporary filling by drilling it out, put in some more antibiotics and told me to trot my bad self back there in two months. And so I innocently started down yet another one of those rabbit holes that is such a recurring motif in the magic and mystery that is mrpeenee.
Every two months for the last year, I’ve reported in like a good little patient and we go through the entire routine again. Each time, I feel like I’m letting down the team. My jaw is not cooperating. Let me hasten to add, the hole is covered by my gum and I cannot feel it, no matter how much I poke at it with my tongue. Never has hurt, just hanging around like a hole is wont to. And so we go along our merry way, filling and refilling the same fucking tooth every two months. Every. Two. Months.
I am fortunate he’s so good at this, because each time, the drilling part is uncomfortable, right on the edge of hurting. I sit there, clenched, thinking “This could blast through into real agony any second.” I mentioned that to the good doctor once and he said “Yeah, you seem ok.” Oh, well then, party down!
Now we are discussing the obvious possibility that the hole will not heal and I will need oral surgery to repair it. Is there any more rousing term in the language than “oral surgery?” He described the two options therein and got to the part where he would peel my gum back and I sort of blanked out. I don’t even remember anything about the second option.
I remind myself that I watched R Man go through open heart surgery and chemotherapy (twice) and I should just buck up. And then a tiny little traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers. “Peel back your gums” and I am ever so less sanguine.
I’m due back in February for our regular danse macabre. It’s our anniversary, but I don’t know what to get him. Something in ivory I suppose.