Dental Waterboarding

How did it get to be the end of May already?

I want the world to know that my beloved Lulu turned 32 two days ago! And in two days, it’s my own Big Day. I remember working on a national radio series about American holiday traditions with my buddy Adi many years ago. On my 35th birthday, when Molly was four days old, I got a call from the accounting office at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, which had funded our project. The woman on the phone demanded that I immediately submit a detailed record of funds spent thus far, line by line. It was way more than my brain could handle at that moment. I got all teary as she relentlessly pounded on me for budgetary information. “But it’s my birthday and I have a four-day-old baby,” I whined. She didn’t soften. She claimed it was urgent. Luckily, Adi came to the rescue. Anyway, it does seem that, quite often, parents and their children have proximal birthdays. For instance, Dad’s was five days after mine, and Small’s is two days after my brother’s.

Lulu with her two new kittens, Hercule and Phryne:

Which leads us straight back to the topic of cats.

The Saga of Elliott and Midnight (continued)

After eight huge loads of laundry, remaking beds, rehanging curtains, and vacuuming and washing floors in the cats’ former quarters, normalcy has been restored at my house since the departure of the kitties.

Though I was genuinely fond of Elliott, my instinct told me not to invite him back here, despite the shelter woman’s entreaty. I did seriously consider it. Then my friend TJ did a Tarot reading for me about the situation, and the spread was filled with things like The Tower and the Eight of Swords and other bad stuff. So I made my decision. This is what I sent to the rescue agency:

I’ve realized that I really can’t take on more than one cat, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be fair to Elliott to separate him from his pals, because I strongly suspect he’d be much happier with a feline companion. I also don’t think it’s fair to him that I am worried about his messing up my new furniture, a concern based on seeing his enthusiastic work on dismantling the underside of the box spring! I know that some cats just do that kind of stuff and I think an ideal cat mother would be more relaxed about those things than I am. He deserves that. He’s a sweet, sweet boy and I was lucky to spend time with him. I so enjoyed the two weeks we got to spend together. I hope he finds a new home soon

I never did hear back from her. I imagine she’s quite disappointed, and done with the likes of me.

Here were my sentiments when I couldn’t get anywhere close to Midnight even after two weeks of gentle attention:

Last week, the day before my trip to the Foothills, I realized that my house key (which had been well hidden in my backyard) was missing. I panicked, fearing it had fallen into the wrong hands, though I couldn’t fathom how. I don’t know how long ago it went astray, but once I realized it was gone, I knew I’d never be able to sleep peacefully until I got the locks changed, and I didn’t want to leave town before that either. So I made a call to the emergency key place, and the helpful, efficient young (vaccinated) guy came right out. His voice was hoarse from yelling in support of the Warriors at their final game, which they tragically lost. I think that ends the season for them. Sadly, since it was a Sunday and he was officially closed, he had to charge me a lot: $400 down the drain.

In Grass Valley I had a lovely time seeing TJ and Richard, now that we’re all fully vaccinated and rarely intermingle with others. The three of us played endless games of Yahtzee, Qwirkle and Parcheesi, every single one of which I not only lost, but came in last place. Luck has never been my strong suit. I also got to see my dear Syd at a downtown coffee shop briefly. What remarkable people they all are. Sadly, I missed spending time my other local friend Marianna (it would have helped if I’d given her more than one minute’s warning that I was in town), so next time I’ll try to provide advance notice.

For weeks and weeks I’ve been dreading today, when I had to return to the dentist for yet another three-hour appointment, this one to pry off a bridge, grind down the badly decayed teeth beneath, and determine if anything is worth saving. An hour before I was due there, I popped the Ativan the doctor prescribed. This treatment is part of a $25,000 (and climbing) plan to keep my teeth from falling out. Ahead there are gum grafts and implants and more extractions and root canals and lots of fillings and bridges and crowns. With all this, you’d think I was a tweaker or something. The weird thing is that I take good care of my teeth. I’m told the problem is a combination of crappy genes and possibly the depression drugs I’ve taken for decades, which cause dry mouth, which in turn leads to decay. Plus, they’re terribly crooked to begin with (despite three years of braces back in the day), with a significant crossbite. That’s why you’ll almost never see me smile big unless I have my hand over my mouth.

Before the work began, they took my blood pressure again. I warned them it would be high. The 164/93 reading led them to modify my novocaine cocktail so that it had hardly any epinephrine, which kills pain for longer but, because it’s essentially adrenaline, also jacks up one’s heart rate. It took two hours for the doctor to saw and drill and pry off the old bridge. Those tools squirt volumes of water as they grind and scream away, and the suction device wasn’t effective, so twice my airway started to fill with liquid and I began to cough uncontrollably, thus temporarily halting the procedure. Later the doctor apologized: “I’m sorry I waterboarded you.”

Small got a good idea from her friend Leslie: bring noise-cancelling earbuds to the appointment and listen to music. I tried that but then couldn’t hear what the dentist was saying, plus the shriek of the tools drowned out all other sound.

Once the bridge was off, there was bad news: The two anchor teeth have cavities deep below the gum line (which will have to be excavated by the periodontist) and one is decayed all the way to the nerve, making it unsalvageable. It’ll have to go, and the other one is unable to support a crown or bridge. More appointments in the next weeks, and in the meantime, I have no way to chew food, since the temporary crown can’t handle that activity and the other side of my mouth doesn’t have enough teeth. I just placed an order for soft foods.

I’ll tell ya: I’m not enjoying all these side-effects of declining years.

Five minutes after posting: I just ate a soft cookie and shattered my new bridge. It broke in several places and has jagged edges all over. I am beside myself with frustration and fury. Now it’s razor-sharp and every time I move my tongue or try to talk, my tongue gets sliced. I’ve got a call into the doctor, but of course it’s Friday of a holiday weekend. I just can’t believe this. It is so uncomfortable and so stupid.

Ten minutes after posting: The doctor already called me back and will fix me up tomorrow morning at 10:00, despite the holiday weekend. She rocks. Hope I don’t screw it up again. It’s very uncomfortable now, and talking is out of the question.