I Got The Roscoe, See?
So, old Doc Baker yanked tooth No. 18 out of my skull just about an hour ago.
The sumnabitch was so locked in he had to saw it in half to get it out, piece by piece. Odd, that, since it was the only tooth in my head that showed any mobility at all. The rest of my choppers are set in concrete, fer gosh sakes.
BTW: ID-ing it as No. 18 doesn’t mean it’s the eighteenth of my teeth to be to be extracted. Dentists have a numbering system and that one, the middle molar in my lower left jaw, just happens to be No. 18.
Anyway, I’ll look and sound like a movie tough guy for the next couple of hours, talking and drinking coffee out of the side of my mouth.
See, this is one thing I was most afraid of. I take great pride in my choppers. I’ve never had a cavity in my life. I brush and rinse and floss to a fault. And now I’ve got this huge chasm in my jaw.
The problem, though, was the prospect of laying there as the doc yanked and grunted, my mouth agape and numb. Hard to believe, but in this day and age dentists have to use pretty much the same techniques their predecessors from, say, the 1880’s did to extract a tooth. It’s basically chisels, pliers, and muscle. The only difference is dentists can administer something a tad more efficacious than a shot of rotgut whiskey for the pain.
Which brings me to my numb jaw, lips, and tongue. It’s just about impossible for me to pronounce my consonants properly, particularly my lingual/dentals. So, basically, I’m articulating like a cross between Edward G. Robinson and Sylvester the Cat.
Tho I’m In Sharghe Now, Thee?
Hallelujah, I’ve crossed the tooth hurdle. Now all that stands between me and chemotherapy is surgery Tuesday, when my drug port and feeding tube are installed.
In a weird twist, I’m not at all apprehensive about that one.
Meanwhile, I’m going to enjoy this glorious day with The Loved One. She’s my moll.