A Trip to the Oral Surgeon
My dentist, kindly Dr. Hannibal Lecter, lets me know that I'm due for
an appointment by sending me a postcard with puppies on it. This
strikes me as something akin to false advertising. Puppies are
cute--in my whole life, I've never heard anyone describe a root canal
as a "cute" experience.
I do take care of my teeth. I floss everywhere I consider it
appropriate, and I brush daily with my son's Godzilla toothpaste ("Now
With More Sugar!", it says on the tube). So I am caught by complete
surprise when my jaw suddenly explodes in oral agony one morning, as
if the puppies on the postcard have spent the night chewing on my
cheek bones. I call the dentist office, explaining this is an
emergency of the worst kind--one involving me.
"Mr. Cameron," kindly Dr. Lecter advises me when I get there, "I've
discovered the source of your pain."
"Like, my mouth?" I suggest. Maybe I should be a dentist. Do you
have to take a test or Something?
"Your wisdom teeth," he says. He shows me an X-ray of my mouth,
pointing out the grassy knoll and the book depository. Toward the
back of my jaw a couple of teeth look like they have gotten drunk and
fallen over.
"Is this bad news?" I ask.
He sighs. "Well, it means I'll be able to afford that new bass boat
I've been looking at. For you, it means the teeth will have to come
out."
Okay, not so bad. I've lost teeth before, and even had something of
a cottage industry for awhile selling them to the tooth fairy, who
turns out to be my father, of all people. Here you go through most of
your childhood thinking your dad is a gynecologist and then you see
him sneaking into your sister's room to take her molar and leave a
quarter. I remember when my friend Tommy lost two of his teeth when
he put his mouth right where I was throwing a baseball (what an
idiot!). That night I lay in bed giggling over the idea of my father
sneaking in to put money under Tommy's pillow. The next morning, when
I innocently asked my dad how Tommy was doing, he pretended not to
understand what I was talking about.
According to kindly Dr. Lecter, even though we humans have no spare
fingers or extra heads or anything, our jaws are riddled with
superfluous teeth that have nowhere to go. Apparently when God
created oral surgeons he wanted to make sure they would be able to
afford luxury cars. "Look, they're impacted," he tells me in a stern
tone, like my wisdom teeth are a couple of pet dogs who got into the
neighbor's trash. "Impacted" means that instead of popping up
straight, my wisdom teeth are trying to escape by tunneling out the
side of my jaw. Another decade or so and I will be able to chew gum
with my ears.
"We'll have to make an sado-incision here," Lecter intones, drawing
his finger across the X-ray. "Then I'll apply extreme pain to the
entire area."
"Why do they call them wisdom teeth if all they are good for is oral
surgery?" I complain bitterly. "They should call them stupid teeth."
"We'll do the procedure on a Friday, so that when you run out of pain
pills on Sunday I will be unavailable," Lecter continues, running
through the standard instructions for a patient. "I'll give you a
special anesthetic so that you'll be nauseated during the operation.
Don't eat anything for 24 hours before you come in--I want you to get
started on being miserable."
"Hey, you must think I'm pretty stupid," I rinse and spit angrily.
"For the past 10 years you've been aiming this cone-shaped X-ray
device at EXACTLY the spot where you say my teeth have become
impacted. Am I not supposed to see the connection?"
"Yes, I think you're pretty stupid," he concedes.
We agree that he needs time to pick out the boat he wants, so we
schedule the surgery for next month. As I leave I catch sight of
myself in the mirror and wonder what I would look like with teeth
jutting out of the side of my face.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
[ by
W. Bruce Cameron © 2001, 2003 (bruce@wbrucecameron.com) -- { used with permission } ]
Inspirational Humor
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