It's no secret that I am living, partially-digested, in the belly of a whale. It stinks in here. What is that, seaweed? Gross.
This week, as the direct result of inherited generational Appalachian poverty and a lifetime of poor dental care, I had a tooth extracted. (My family has always had dental problems. My mom and I walked into the kitchen one sunny afternoon to find dad doing some amateur dental work over the kitchen sink - he was trying to super glue part of his bridge back in when mom and I caught him off guard. Seems he had been periodically re-securing the faulty piece now and then, but this time he'd accidentally glued his finger to his lip. After we caught our breath from laughing, we found some nail polish remover and helped him get unstuck. And I believe I recently mentioned Great Aunt Kniecey, who removed all of her own problem teeth with a pair of pliers and a mason jar full of moonshine.) But I digress...
To say "extracted" does not do justice to the complexity of the procedure. It makes it sound as if my tooth were plucked out like a turnip from some soggy ground. It was not. It went like this: First the dentist (oral surgeon) said: "We're going to need to break your tooth in half and take it out in two pieces. Now, you're going to hear some noises." And then I did hear noises. Ungodly noises. Creaking and cracking like the felling of a tree. The dentist was a lumberjack and my tooth a mighty Sequoia. (He was wearing a flannel shirt and a toboggan hat at the time.)
And then he started tugging, to no avail. And then digging. With a "two-tipped root tool", as he called it. I was completely numb, of course. (They always give me shots of novacaine and wait for it to take effect, and then ask me if I can still feel it. I always lie to them and ask for an extra shot, until I'm confident that I wouldn't notice being hit in the mouth with a steam shovel.) The digging didn't seem to be going as expected, and the dentist looked down at me and said, "We're going to have to drill." He looked just like the Angel of death, surrounded by the halo of light from that special lamp they hang over the dental chair. I tried to pretend like I was excited about the drilling. I felt like I needed to encourage him so he wouldn't be nervous and would do a good job. (Plus, suicide rates are so high among dentists nowadays - I'm nothing if not a giver.)
Soon the drilling gave way to a subtle exasperation. And the dentist said, "Wow, that tooth is really hugging the bone." And I envisioned my frightened molar clinging for dear life to my jaw bone. And I found myself suddenly meditating, almost praying to my body to let go of the tooth. I had a gentle chat with my jaw about the importance of knowing when to let go. (My jaw sneered at me, as if to say "look who's talking!" - because, if you don't know, I don't know how to let go of anything. Ever. Literally, never. I just don't. I never have known when to quit, or how to let go. It's weird.)
For the first time, I had a deliberate and rational conversation with my body. It was a little like talking to a familiar stranger. Like that guy I used to see on the train every morning. I didn't quite know him, but there was something familiar about him. That's how I felt about my jaw, and my tooth. As if they had wills and desires all their own and I'd made some wild executive decision without their consent or knowledge, and now my dentist was using dynamite to blast the tooth from it's place. Like an unexpected eviction notice, but my tooth fought back. And I was suddenly a little bit proud. And a little relieved to know that there was at least that much will left in my body.
Finally, my jaw relinquished the molar. And the dentist wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. My jaw had been a worthy opponent. And, as it turns out, despite generational poverty, poor dental care, and less-than-stellar examples of home-style dental work, my roots - both Appalachian and molar - run deeper than expected. And that's comforting.
I'm left now with an empty space in my mouth. An empty space that will forever remind me of the battle between my flesh and the world. My sequioa and my lumberjack dentist. And how fleeting and fragile are these bodies - these jars of clay that contain our souls. I'll send my tongue now and then to stand in the empty space, and I'll spend time there mourning the loss of molar #18, and having a little more respect for my body - which worked so hard to hold me together on the inside.
Comments (1)
Hello Brian,
You made your site simple yet elegant. Your stories are more interesting than most. I see that you have a wide variety of personal observations here!
Now is a good time to learn about the true God, Jehovah, and find out what His plans are for us. "The land is swollen with murder. The city is bloated with injustice. They all say, 'God has forsaken the country. He doesn't see anything we do.' Well, I do see, and I'm not feeling sorry for any of them. They're going to pay for what they've done." (Ezekiel 9:9-10) (The Message)