Teeth

My aunt had all of her teeth pulled out except for her front top four. She had to have them pulled because she has throat cancer, and apparently it can cause a great deal of dental problems when someone is getting chemo and radiation in the mouth and there are teeth in the way. She had all of her teeth pulled out a couple of weeks before she started her chemo and radiation, which she calls rat poison and sun tanning, to give her gums time to heal. She’s like 65, but she had all of her original teeth.

I wonder what I would say or think if I had to have all of my teeth pulled out, teeth that had been with me for so long and had nothing wrong with them. I think about the holes that would be left, and the stuffing that would fill those holes, and the nerves that would have to be subdued, and the diet that would consist of liquid or near liquid foods for the next year, because that’s how long it will take before she can get dentures.

I think about going into the dentist, sitting in the waiting room, running my tongue along my teeth, loving my teeth, feeling every contour. Going into the dentist’s chair, making sure that they give me laughing gas and Novocain, and plenty of both, to keep me loopy and not caring what was happening with my teeth. Coming out of it and not looking at what was left. Can I keep the teeth? What the hell do I want them for? Thinking about the big picture: they didn’t remove all of my teeth to be cruel, they’re helping me live. The big picture would have to be the focus; thinking about the day-to-day living would create insanity. No teeth, save the front four. No teeth.

When I think about that, I go upstairs and load up my toothbrush and brush quietly, thoughtfully, thoroughly. I concentrate on all surfaces of my teeth, brush up and down, sideways, and in circles. I make sure I hit the wisdom teeth that are quietly and slowly emerging in the back of my mouth, make sure I get the back of my bottom front teeth. I scrub gently. I spit and keep scrubbing, and rinse. I thoughtfully floss, making sure to really scrape each side of the tooth, rather than my usual hurried dip into the gum bed and onto the next set. I use mouthwash, and Listerine, no less. I swirl for a long time, a minute or more, and my eyes are running and my tongue shrinks onto itself, and when I spit and inspect, the teeth glow and my pink gums, the ones that my last dentist called “so lovely,” which was about the best compliment I had gotten in a long time, gripped onto my teeth, mooring them in place. Brushing never seemed like an act of respect until now.