Teeth

I broke a tooth Monday night biting into a Snickers Bar. I felt something hard in my mouth and thought, “Man, that is some kind of peanut.” But what I pulled from my mouth was a piece of me.
It was the nearly-back tooth, number 19, the first molar on the bottom left side of my mouth. There was no pain, only the sinking feeling that something life-changing had just happened with the bite of that candy bar.
Earlier that day I had decided I would fast. It was the first Monday of Advent, and I wanted to see how committed I could be to the season, despite the fact that most Catholics no longer feel Advent is a penitential season. So I had not eaten much that day—a yogurt, some salad, and a hot dog before I left the house for the college library where I wait while my daughter takes a class.
Sitting in the library, having accomplished all the work I had planned to do that evening, I decided God would not mind if I treated myself to a little chocolate. Well, apparently he did mind. In fact, he made it very clear that he, too, wants to see how committed to the season I can be.
I texted my husband. “I just broke a tooth on a freakin’ Snickers bar!”
After inquiring about my level of pain and the seriousness of the damage, he promised to find me a dentist first thing in the morning.
Still feeling no pain, I began to realize what had happened. A part of me had just fallen off doing what it is created to do. The teeth are the hardest part of one’s body. I take care to brush mine several times a day, floss them periodically (Don’t judge me! You know no one really flosses!), and avoid opening bottles of beer with them. Still, there was that period of time when I was a voracious ice-chewer. For months, maybe years, I chomped on ice, craving it in the middle of the night, demanding particularly shaped cubes that felt just right in my mouth. I learned later that I had an iron deficiency, and the cravings for ice disappeared after I began taking supplements. Still, apparently the damage had been done. The quarter-inch shard of molar in my hand was evidence of that. Now I knew I could no longer rely on any part of my body to do its duty. What if I stepped out of bed and my leg broke out from under me? What if I sat down to read a book and my eyeball rolled out of its socket and onto the page? What if I were working at my laptop--writing this blog, for instance--and my fingers began to snap and split?
I could not bring myself to eat. It was irrational, I know, but the thought of feeling another piece of tooth rolling around on my tongue, clacking up against its brothers and sisters, was unbearable. I went to bed hungry.
Tuesday, while my husband called around for a dentist, I slipped tiny bites of yogurt between my lips, remembering my dreams of the night before of my teeth shattered and jagged in my mouth.
“You have to eat something,” my husband said.
“No, I don’t.” I told him of my dream.
“Honey, the rest of your teeth are not going to break.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded. And he could not answer.
Did you know that dreaming of teeth is the most commonly reported topic of dreams, according to those to whom we supposedly report our dreams. Dreaming of broken teeth can symbolize a variety of afflictions:
--anxiety about being separated from someone you love
--guilt over having told a lie
--feelings of loss of power or control
--fear of losing one’s youth or beauty
Or, in my case, terror that one’s teeth will break off and fall out.
My appointment was for 8:30 A.M. today. I was squeezed in since broken teeth are apparently considered a minor emergency.
I was escorted to the X-ray room by a sweet lady who said, “Nice to meet you, Caroline. My name is Hilda.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Caroline.” Of course I am. That’s what she just said.
She invited me to open my mouth and show her my broken tooth.
“Ah!” she said. “Let me guess. Mashed potatoes?”
I did not know what she meant.
“You broke your tooth eating mashed potatoes?”
“No,” I said. “I bit into a Snickers bar.”
“Oh!” She giggled. “Most people say they took a bite of mashed potatoes or applesauce and the thing just exploded in their mouth. When it’s time to go, it goes!”
This was not comforting to me.
My dentist was a soft-spoken young man who looked like Josh Groban. He said he was “excited” to tell me that he could save the tooth by removing the old filling and putting a new filling in that would cover and protect the broken area. This would save me a root canal or an extraction, both of which were ghastly options, in my opinion.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
He repeated that he was excited. I was happy for him.
I sat in the chair for an hour and a half while Josh Groban drilled out the old filling and replaced it with new. The drill was not the squealing, horror-movie kind that I remember from when the filling was first implanted back in the 1970’s. It was a gentle whirring drill that could barely be heard over the suction. At times I thought my jaw was going to dislocate, but he had numbed me very well, and it hardly hurt at all. Finally he stepped back.
“There you go!” he said.
“Hooway!” I said.
“Huzzah!” he replied.
The tooth looks good, a wonderful improvement over the old, blackish-silver filling that he removed. Sadly, however, there are six others still in my mouth with that old, crumbling filling. Heavy, heavy sigh.
When I got home, I stretched out on my bed, weary and hungry, and dozed while the numbness wore off. And I dreamed. I was walking through the neighborhood with Josh Groban. He was singing. I smiled. None of my teeth fell out.