The Little Tongue that Couldn't
Midnight, munchies, and nothing to chew with. Oral Problems
Rule # 1 of Neurological Illness: Never let your guard down unless you are high on pain meds, in which case you’ll probably end up with the munchies, leading to a whole new set of problems. I remember when I first got sick and landed in a wheelchair, there was sadness, but I never felt despair. Scratch that. There was one time when I collapsed butt up on the bathroom floor, and the EMT’s (Grey’s Anatomy swoon worthy) swooped in with an oxygen mask as they pulled my pants up while I tried to say: “I normally look better than this.” Some despair crept in.
Normal. It's a word I try not to use as a teacher, but let’s call a spade a spade, when you end up pants down, ass up on the floor, you realize life is no longer normal, or at least normal as I knew it to be.
They say: “All good things must come to an end.” Vacations, family gatherings, a piece of birthday Godiva chocolate cheesecake, a piece of yourself…
I have a blue t-shirt I like to wear that has a Superman emblem emblazoned on the front. I wore it last Sunday before a visit to the dentist. I updated my Facebook status that day (not with a cat meme this time as per usual), but with this entry:
“When the color has set for the day, the superhero cape slips into the laundry basket, and only black and white honesty with ghostly flickers of yourself remain, someone somewhere else is also looking into their unfamiliar past, trying to imagine tomorrow. And if we’re very lucky, tomorrow comes brightly.
…I’ll see you after surgery.”
For the past five years I have known that my autoimmune disease and treatment have been taking my teeth. At my 20 year high school reunion I knew I was heading down the road I saw friends from online support groups going through as my bottom teeth began breaking, yet with illness, the most minor of procedures often come with a host of complications. We began a long goodbye each time I sat in the dental chair. At first, we filled the gap with a temporary filling. “Jon, your teeth aren’t long for this world.” I knew.
In case you’re wondering, only once in a blue moon does a third set of teeth grow in.
It was my turn to look into my past now. I remembered smiling for headshots as an actor. I remembered savoring penne pasta alla vodka in a beachfront restaurant on summer break. I remembered not needing to remember my teeth were there because they just were. As I return to writing after a hiatus, I share a letter I wrote, not unlike my resignation letter from teaching, but a letter to myself. The way I see it–there are several ways to spin a story. Different angles. Because my experience with illness is that there is sadness, but there’s always been a side of humorous ketchup (about all I can chew right now) to make it palatable. If you listen to the “All Good Things…” blog in this publication, you will hear the original blog post in its entirety or can always read it on my website. But here’s the truth that my cat sees on the daily: what illness can look like.
Hey there
Taking the last of my remaining teeth out for their last hurrah before they’re removed on Monday. My smile was never perfect, but it was mine. You wish you appreciated these things “before.” You wish you didn’t care that they’re just teeth. But you do. I have bright, shiny new ones picked from a color palette that will now cover my palate—ready to put in when the bleeding stops. Autoimmune. Treatment. You never said you’d go this far. But…am I dressed for a night out and furthermore, what should I treat them to? A brownie with walnuts? Taffy apple to save me some money, perhaps? It’ll be good. I’ve made it this far. They say all good things must come to an end. I just didn’t think so soon at 42. But I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones. I saved up and can afford these teeth by taking a quarter off from grad school. My body is strong enough to endure this. They’re just teeth…
Love,
Jon
I give them a huge, chunky, chocolate peanut butter cookie to send them off. And I thank them for 42 years of life. In the morning I take the floss from the counter and slide it through the four remaining gaps. I squeeze the whitening Crest onto my purple toothbrush and massage the gums and each of my teeth for the last time. I rinse with mouthwash. They’re almost dead, but I want them to be clean.
I sit in the chair.
“Should I remove my lower denture?” My dentist says no and tells me the thing I need to hear:
“I know they’re just teeth. But they’re part of you. I know. It’s hard.” She places a hand on my shoulder while the numbing takes place.
I keep my eyes closed for 60 minutes for the final six extractions. The right canine hangs on. He doesn’t want to leave. “It’s ok. You can go now,” I silently communicate before opening my eyes to catch a glimpse of a beautiful pink acrylic gum and straight shiny teeth out of the side of my eye before shutting them tightly once more as they are placed in my mouth. I feel something strange. Foreign. Smothering my mouth. I begin to breathe as the blood is wiped from my face. I don’t look until it’s all over.
I smile. Is this what I would look like if I hadn’t gotten sick? They’re pretty. However, there are certain questions that go beyond practicality: how do I eat, talk, breathe, maintain them, etc. Finally, the adult equivalent of the birds and the bees conversation, so to speak, comes to mind. I began going down the Google rabbit hole because God help me if I was going to ask my dentist.
“How do I kiss someone? Where do I put my tongue?”
“In your mouth,” one friend would tell me when I asked.
Hmmm. No.
But in all honesty:
What do I do at night, and in the morning when I’m on a date that goes well? Can I wear them to bed? Will I choke on them? Will the gumline be visible (well, to anyone who reads this, you know now).
We all have certain talents. Talents that I have taught my female girlfriends about back in college using visual aids. Suddenly, I’m a painter without a brush to dip in his palette. Where and how do I dip the brush now?
These are the questions I dare not ask my sweet dentist, young and hip as she is, I am not mature enough to ask these questions. But yeah, sometimes illness does prompt you to think of intimacy.
Next up: Food. I’m on WW, but mostly I’m paying to keep my honest–the weight has stalled. (The last thing I need is a third chin in the way of my newfound worries).
I’m instructed to not chew for 2-3 weeks. Oh, have I been creative with vegetable purées, and protein powder shakes. I'm getting my nutrients. I’m a bit thinner, too. It doesn’t hurt at all. I’m fatigued to put it lightly, but it’s lessening. Yet, as darkness falls, sometimes certain medications for the pain associated with my illness kick in and get the munchie machine rumbling. M&M’s, a grilled cheese sandwich, potato chips and ranch (perhaps my teeth got out just in time); but you get what I mean: the urge to munch is strong. I look in the fridge: “Well. A little hummus on this spinach/green bean/sweet potato puree may do the trick.”
It hasn’t. Can you puree chocolate? I don’t know, however, out of this new diet has come a love for plant-based Mocha protein powder drinks. Healthy. And just as good as a chip smothered in nacho cheese. I better wrap this up before I begin salivating (another thing that is new….how does my tongue remove the saliva from my mouth? I’ll let you know when I figure it out. A cautionary tale friends: once one autoimmune comes in, its army of side effects are soon to follow.
As I type, I remember I’ve waited to have my mouth back for years, but now it’s here and I feel silly for allowing a tear to fall. They’re only teeth. It takes almost a week for these tears to quietly stream down my face. But as they say: all good things must come to an end. Just not my special talent…or the ability to eat nachos.
Illness is…weird.
I took them out yesterday to clean them. I don’t look in the mirror. I can’t yet do so. I don’t want to see the nothingness. I will follow up tomorrow per scheduling. Perhaps I’ll get to chew this week?
The cat’s out of the bag—my smile has been purchased, but the humor is mine. But as all good things must come to an end, I can’t deny each time I purée a tomato with carrots, eggplant, zucchini, and garlic that I am making plans for the things I will do with a smile. Headshots? Smile widely? Eat without fear once I figure out how to chew? So simple. Yet not. New things lie ahead and sometimes you need to remove the decay for life to grow. All good things must come to an end. I believe it. For hope. I must. But until then, I better speed up the healing process because I have a date. There will be no painting.
Until next time…
Jonathan
