Annals of Aging, Chapter the Mouth: So, I have gum disease.


You’ll all still be my friends, right? They said something about how if I exhale anywhere within 500 miles of another human being there’s a 59% chance that human being will develop Ebola-level gum disease within forty-three seconds. 

(“What about cats????” I hear as I type, a dimly shadowed claw rising behind me, if the wall in front of me is any reliable guide, and, believe me, it's hard to be a strict Platonist when you have taken into your home the planet's most efficient predator as a—snort!—“pet.)

But that shouldn’t scare you off, not if you really like me. [No, it’s not catching. Really. Why are you all backing away from me? Frehhhhhhnd! Frehhhhhhhhhhnd!]

So, surgery next week—well, “surgery,” you know? Local. As for the gum issue, we’ll see how fast it progresses next time I get my measurements—which, averaged over all the teeth, are 36-24-36, which is pretty good for a 49-year-old guy; be fair. But the treatments and prevention methods are clear: buy time by doing what you should. With any luck, I’ll see global thermonuclear war and/or climate disaster (I hear they’re planning a double bill) with only one or two implants. 

Meanwhile, somehow, my dentist missed this. The periodontist was polite but…surprised. Great care, great care. Like, Costa Rica-level. If you’re a stray dog in Costa Rica. 

STRAY DOG, COSTA RICA: Actually, we get pretty good dental care at state-supported veterinarian centers. You have to wait a little, but we’re all given a nice cleaning and a treat.

AMERICA: That’s Stalinism! I have a deep and meaningful relationship with my insurance company I want to preserve. We didn’t roll in each others arms on a deserted shore with waves breaking over us to heaving strings for nothing. It meant something to me, OK? I’m just old-fashioned that way.

The periodontist was truly excellent. I’m serious about that part: smart, answered all questions, seemed to laugh for real at my jokes—which, after all, is really all that matters. 

YOU: Um, Doug, this was the "comic piece" of yours that finally sent me over the edge. I just killed your cat.

ME: But didn’t you once laugh at one of my jokes?

YOU [Thinking fast on your feet.]: Uh…yeah. Yeah! Totally. I especially loved that joke that you made back then before that I loved. You remember, the little throwaway line that I pretended—that made me really laugh hard and tell you what a clever little boy you are now here’s a nice cookie?

ME [Beaming.]: Of course! All is forgiven!

GRENDEL [Wearing a monocle and a frown.]: I mean, even as exaggerated self-deprecation, I really don’t care for the style or tone, let alone topic, of this so-called “humor." [Claw shadow begins to descend, Nosferatu-like.]

So, at one point, he’s looking in my mouth, poking in between two teeth, noting my grand mal seizure and saying, “Yep, you can feel that.” 

Like I said: smart. And, c’mon: there’s years of training and years more of honing skills in the cauldron of raw experience at play there, too. Give the man some credit; it’s not just a gift, people.

I say, “Yes, but isn’t that between two different teeth [than the known culprits here]?”—I instantly stop myself and say, “What the hell am I saying?—you’re using your eyes; I’m relying on nerves over here. Why am I challenging you? I promise to remain quiet for the remainder of the evening.” Both he and the nurse cracked up for a few seconds. Then we went on. 

Seriously, this is honestly not a big deal. If I follow every possible preventive procedure, and give up eating from now on, there's every chance I'll look as good as this in a few short years:



It’s mostly grinding-related, but some gum-deoxygenizing behaviors, the nature of which will not be specified, didn’t help. Less than stellar dedication to brushing and flossing and dentist visits from time to time didn’t help. You people not laughing enough at my jokes didn’t help. 

But it’s mostly grinding-related, and inevitable-ish. Thanks, mom and dad! (Of course I can’t be sure the grinding is all due to that/“them,” or how much of it is—who knows? But the fact remains that it’s just funnier that way.)

Thus hath Yahweh wielded His terrible swift medical-grade Sword and punished me with Oral Surgery, making of me an Example unto the Nations of the Woe that betides those who follow the Adversary! Rend your Clothing and heap Ashes upon your Head!

ME [Pushing glasses up nose; smirk on facemoreso.] Well, surely not all Nations. I mean, I rather doubt the Chi-nese are paying much attention.

YAHWEH: Snark on, Prodigal. It’s just that kind of lip that’s tanked your gums—yea! [Yahweh looks over His shoulder; annoyed.] Yea, I say! [Delayed thunder roars; Yahweh shakes His head in disgust; carries on.

Harken unto Me, O Tarnopol—or Keen, or whatever the hell it is you call yourself:—today have I smited your Gums with a Great Recession—lo! [No thunder; He soldiers on.]near to the very Roots of, so far, a couple of your Teeth, and this for your Disobedience, wanton Concupiscence, and support for Universal Healthcare, an Abomination from Gehenna! And when you gnash your teeth about it, that'll make it worse. Great and terrible is My Vengeance; thus saith the Lord!

By the way, this will cost you, between surgery and deep cleanings (to be performed by highly trained Customs and Border Patrol professionals), about $2500 in total, and it, plus the extra cleanings you’ll need to have in order to avoid having to go back to breastfeeding—(ME [Looking at the ceiling, holding chin, light bulb glowing above head.]: Wait a second…nah, no.)may or may not be much covered at all by your first-rate healthcare through your wife’s Fortune 100 company, a subsidiary of Yahweh Enterprises, along with the recently acquired Lockheed Martin and for-profit prisons on the southern border.

Prostrate yourself, Heathen—or at least lie back—and receive My judgment! If it were up to Me, you wouldn’t even get novocaine! Now, recline, and learn why this day will be different from all other days...

FADE TO BLACK as the screams and jackhammering also fade...

Anyway, I was hoping to reach 50 before anything like this went down, but…oh, well. It could be a lot worse. I could be listening to a Tom Friedman audiobook, for example.

CUT TO:

July 16, 2019, 8:40 AM

INTERIOR: Treatment Room, Rhode Island Periodontics; akin to the one in Dead Ringers when the dude(s) played by Jeremy Irons finally goes completely ‘round the bend, and, yes, including the equipment. Especially the equipment. I’m fastened to the chair with clamped nylons. (If you haven’t seen the film this will mean nothing to you, so just presume it’s brilliantly funny.)

NURSE, chipper -- or is it NURSE CHIPPER? -- speaks.

NURSE: And during the procedure, you can use these ear buds to listen to, well, usually music, but that’s down. 

We do have the collected works of Tom Friedman, though. That's working just fine.

You should be able to make it out above all the screaming; novocaine is oversold. Well, at least when the periodontist is in your gums up to his elbows and tickling the underside of your skull, as will be necessary to prep you for the actual procedure. Which is far worse.

IRIS SHOT on my face showing a classic “Uh-oh!” look, and then a shrug. IRIS closes as Looney Tunes theme rings out.

Fin

When, if ever, the shock at my raw comedic talent rubs off, and your forebrain begins to work again, please send the Macarthur “genius grant” to:

Doug Tarnopol 
37 Rose Hill Drive 
Cranston, RI 02920 

I’d prefer direct deposit, frankly—or, actually, come to think of it, just mail it here:

Rhode Island Periodontics
417 Angell Street
Providence, RI 02906-4518

Saves me a stamp. Make it out to my periodontist, Dr Elliot Mantle. 

Or was it Beverly?