By the time you read this, I will have flipped the script of my 50s and plummeted down the rabbit hole known as 54. My time in the land of quinquagenarians has been exciting and enlightening. In other words, I adore my 50s. My 20s were HARD. I was a young mom. It was hectic - still trying to figure out who I was in this big old world. My 30s were even harder! I cooked up a mess of baseball games and kid school functions and seasoned it with a corporate job and a blended family. My 40s were nightmarish. I lost a child. I became ill. Then the 50s came along and swept me off my feet. I gained an addiction to simplicity. I lost the desire to prove so much to so many. Yet, while the mind has been greatly eased, the body has bolted like a lone deer at a game feeder on opening day. 50s, what are you doing to my body? My upper spine is crooked. Some odd little cysts have claimed squatter’s rights in my lower lumbar. My knees are bad. My eyes are worsening by the minute. But, none of this prepared me for the saga of my teeth. Because, nothing – and, I mean nothing – freaks me out worse than going to the dentist.
The year was 2008. I was dealing with and reeling from a breast cancer diagnosis, an exaggerated hurry up and wait process. By the time you get a diagnosis, at least in my case, you’ve already found the lump, called your OB/GYN, waited for the appointment for what feels like 2 years. Then, you’ve waited for the biopsy & the results. Then comes the specialists with more calling and waiting. You have to see the surgeon, the oncologist, the “plastics” (that’s the little term they use for a reconstructive surgeon), have the port surgery, the brca test, and a million other things. Finally, after what seems like a lifetime of having this monstrous beast inside of your body, it’s time to start chemo. Ring, ring. “Hello, Mrs. Moon. Yeah, so we’ve got you all set up for chemo on Monday. I just had one question. We need proof of your dentist visit. Oh, no one told you to see a dentist before chemo? Ok, well, I’m sorry it’s Friday morning, but if you don’t see a dentist before Monday, no chemo for you. The doctor is very firm on this.” That conversation resulted in a panic attack of tears for me, as I frantically phoned every dental practice in a 50-mile radius, praying that someone, anyone, would take pity on me and work me in on a same day basis. The end result was a very long day and a very huge molar filling for a very deep cavity that caused me very intense pain. I remember telling the dentist over and over again that I still wasn’t numb, while being told that my sheer terror was responsible for the pain. I’d been numbed nine ways ‘til Sunday, they said. It left a mark on both my tooth and my soul. I swore I’d never see a dentist again. Fast forward to 2019. I was sitting in a dentist office with my sweet mom, who just wanted to check on some front veneers, but learned she was actually in danger of losing all of her bottom teeth due to disease. A little voice said, “This is you. Give it 20 years & you will be right here listening to someone tell you the same dire information. Girl, get over this and go to the dentist.” So, I did.
Nearly 12 years without seeing a dentist, and I waltzed out of my appointment with only a normal amount of gum recession and no cavities. I was pretty proud. Sure, I can count the days I neglected to floss on one hand, but I must have superior teeth. I mean, I do recall the dentist saying silly little things like, “All your molars have these little hairline cracks.” I think she also said something along the lines of, “You’re eventually going to need to have all four of these molars crowned.” But, I knew better. The molars felt fine. They would never peace out on me. Just another example of a medical professional being way too conservative, and perfectionist driven with their diagnosis, I thought. Even though, every 6 months, because I gave myself my word on dental visits, the same scenario was given to me. YOU NEED CROWNS. Then, suddenly, while visiting my grandchildren recently, I bit into a delectable sugar cookie the kiddos and I had made from scratch. Chynna Rose decorated hers with glitter sprinkles. That’s when my molar house of cards fell down. One bite into that hard purple sprinkle and my worst fear was realized. THAT TOOTH STINKING HURTS.
The thing about a cracked tooth is, once the crack extends below the gumline, it’s a whole different situation. There are PTSD flashbacks – this is the same tooth the past dentist couldn’t numb – of long needles and burning sensations that even nitrous oxide can’t help. There’s drilling, so much drilling. There are repeated acknowledgements of how small my back molars are and how narrow my jaw area seems. There’s a temporary crown and some sleepless nights. Then there’s a permanent crown that leads to more filing. Only, the tooth is so small. So, the bite is so off. Then jaw is spasming and the tooth is hurting and the opposite jaw is singing the blues. Flurries of more adjustments and mentions of future root canals and advisement against pulling the tooth occur. Finally, a muscle relaxer and yet more filing bring relief. Thankfully, I woke up this morning to a relaxed jaw, a seamless bite, and a phone call from the dentist. She wanted to remind me I need 3 more crowns. It ain’t easy being a queen.
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