It feels like a DINNER PLATE...
...that's been STUCK in my MOUTH...

At times, this blog serves as an outlet for all of the adjusting and readjusting I'm having to do as I get older. This week, I have crossed another threshold on the way to becoming just another old and tired has-been who's getting pushed aside by all kinds of new things that I'm not only having to accept, but ENDURE, all the while realizing that it's totally MY FAULT that I've had to undergo what I'm presently undergoing. What am I talking about? DENTURES. As I type this, I'm having to get used to a full upper "PLATE" full of fake teeth, complemented by fake gums. And, hopefully I can get used to this upper plate soon, 'cos on the heels of that will come Lower Dentures. It's what I get for not having brushed my teeth a whole lot when I was younger. Yep, time to pay the piper...after I pay the dentist, of course.
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Open WIDE and say, "aaaaah"...
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First, before the dentures, comes The Pulling Of Teeth. YANK! CRANK! I've had myriad extractions in the last 2-3 weeks. I now have No Real Teeth up top, and soon I'll have only two left on the bottom which (theoretically) will provide as an anchor for the Lower False Teeth that'll soon be gracing my palate. I've had my top denture in for 3 days now, and at first, the Lack of Room for anything involving the tongue is quite alarming. It's as if there's constant competition between tongue and top denture; the tongue pushes up against the Unyielding Hard And Thick Plastic Material, and the Thick Plastic Material always wins. It honestly feels as if I need some sort of Tongue-Liposuction. I'll be having several followup appointments this month, where my dentist will studiously strive to make adjustments, shaving a bit of tooth here and there so that my mouth can close with some degree of alignment. CLOMP!
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My dentist is also a denturist. He's cornered the market. There's something to be said for diversity, I guess. In a typical post-extraction appointment, I'll find myself in the dentist chair, with him seated behind me, working at a counter, with one of those blowtorch-things flaming away, slowly molding and melding the Unyielding Plastic Material so it comes at least (again, hopefully) somewhat close to approximating the Roof Of My Mouth. So, if I feel like complaining about how much my mouth is hurting, or how clumsy the denture feels inside my mouth, I've got to choose my words carefully...you don't want to anger a torch-wielding dentist/denturist, after all. He told me that he's been doing this kind of work for over forty years...and I tactfully held back when I was tempted to ask him,"why would a person wanna stick his hands in people's mouths for forty years? It sounds like some kind of hell to me." But I guess the money's pretty good.
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Ah, but this dentist is no Fast Buck Freddie; he's a professorial-type, whose presence elicits the word "Sir" whenever I address him. And he's a quiet craftsman-type, more a sculptor than Mere Dental Employee Grinding Out Another Day. He's older than me, which is refreshing, since I don't meet that many people who are older than me anymore. And his staff puts up with me moaning and groaning all over the place after the Dentist/Denturist mercifully lets me escape from the Dental Chair. They all put up with me and my various paranoid-induced moanings and groanings after I've been allowed to stumble my way out to where I end up in the front office, depositing myself in a shaking quivering heap of globby flesh in his front office so that I can make Another Appointment, so I can return, and we can all Dance This Mess Around All Over Again. I never thought Going To The Dentist would Be My Social Life. I must a wild and crazy guy! All I know is, that until I get used to the Unyielding Plastic of a Denture in my mouth, I'll feel sorta like the guy pictured below...
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Glurg. OOP! Ackthptf. Blorg. Mmmmph. Glurg Glurg.
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I know that I'm doing the right thing, though. Yes, I wish I didn't have to surrender my teeth; I absolutely HATE the thought of getting rid of them. To me, Losing One's Teeth is one of Life's Final big experiences. Once they're gone, they're gone, and they HAD to go. My teeth were pouring all kinds of infection-laden, constantly-festering sewer juices into my throat and body. I've had constant fatigue, sore throats and ravaged vocal cords from the stuff dripping into my system. I've gone thru several truckloads of Trident (TM) Spearmint gum, all because I couldn't STAND the way my mouth was tasting. Good thing I haven't kissed anyone lately, huh?
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Look...with or without teeth, I want to LIVE. And, actually, I'm fairly comfortable with the way my Upper Denture sticks to the palate. I can speak fairly easily with it in, and it feels a lot better IN than OUT of my mouth. It actually feels weird NOT having the denture in. Without it, my mouth feels like it's got room enough for a couple of bowling balls. (Hard to talk with bowling balls in your mouth, however.) And, unlike a bowling ball in the mouth, I can even sleep with the denture in, something I'll have to do for a while (if not eternity) until my mouth has fully recovered from the various Dental Tugs-of-War that I've been enduring lately.
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At first, it's a little scary being faced with the prospect of having all yer teeth pulled. But in the end, for all I care, you can tear my head off if you want; just make sure I'm pumped full of novacaine or whatever else is used these days. I'll just hope I don't lose my denture(s) the way I periodically Lose Car Keys. Does anyone make a denture alarm? You know, where Clap your hands twice and the denture emits a loud buzzing sound from a tiny transmitter embedded in the Unyielding Plastic? A Denture-Clapper? Clap on, Clap off...THE CLAPPER...gosh...surely Denture-shaped Chia Pets can't be far behind...
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And, finally, if a Denture can't solve my dental problems and I do end up with a Dinner Plate in my mouth, I'll just hope it's not as ugly as this one...
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This plate could cure your appetite. Gawd. I'm getting SEASICK just looking at it!
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Finally, to all of those women who advertise in the Personals, who specify that a prospective mate must have All His Own Teeth, well, I DO. They're my teeth, all right. I BOUGHT 'em. So there!