Another old coot tooth bites the dust.
By Merlin Lessler.
I took inventory the other day; I counted my teeth. It’s
something you need to do every once in a while when you’re an old coot. I had
32 teeth when I turned twenty-one. Four were wisdom teeth, though I had no
wisdom at the time, just the teeth. Now, I’m down to twenty-five. I’m not a
hockey player nor do I get in fights. My last tooth-jarring scuffle came when I
was twelve years old. It took place at YMCA’s Camp Arrowhead, on what is now a
private lake near Little Meadows, Pennsylvania. A big kid was shoving around my
friend Woody, so I jumped in, pushed him aside and told him to stop. He beat
the stuffing out of me.
I didn’t lose any teeth, just a load of pride and an inkling
that my perceived prowess was suspect. Something I proved beyond a doubt over
the next several years, twice the recipient of a surprise throat punch. (No
teeth to worry about in that situation.)
I had watched too many cowboy and Indian movies, where the good guy
(most notably Roy Rogers) could beat up a gang of bad guys with one hand tied
behind his back. I thought I was just like him. It was a hard road to the
truth.
No, the demise of my toothful grin was not the result of
violence. It started with my wisdom teeth; they became impacted one at a time
over a twenty-year stretch. When the last one left me I was in my forties and
more concerned about a vision problem than a tooth problem. I couldn’t read the
paper; my arms weren’t long enough. So there I was, well into a second mid life
crisis (my first came at age 30), half blind and down to 28 teeth. Twenty-eight
isn’t bad. It’s an even number, fourteen on the top, fourteen on the bottom,
one over the other so they function as designed.
But then along came the old coot roulette wheel. It spins
and spins. One day it lands on the sore knee space, another day on the aching
back slot. Then the cataract spot. The wheel keeps spinning and eventually
lands on the broken tooth space. An absent-minded crunch on an unpopped popcorn
kernel breaks off the back quadrant of a molar. You get it fixed. You get the
speech that all medical personnel deliver to you at the end of every visit.
“You have to expect this at your age.”
Now, you’re paranoid. Afraid that one misplaced chew will
put you back in the dentist’s chair. Time passes and you forget. The roulette
wheel comes back to the broken tooth slot. You do it again. This time on a
Sugar Daddy. It should be against the law to sell Sugar Daddies to old coots.
We should be asked for proof of age, and turned away if we’re over 60. The
tooth is beyond repair, so you have it pulled. Then it happens again! And,
again! Oh sure, multi-thousand dollar root canals and crowns could save them,
for a while (maybe, no guarantees). But old coots are cheap .So, now I’m down
to twenty-five and still counting.
I originally penned this essay 11 years ago. Just the other
day, my dentist, Pam, (gently) removed yet another molar. It wasn’t doing much;
the opposing tooth above, left in 2006, yet somehow, it decided to leave the
sinking ship while it could. Maybe now I’ll get a discount when I get them
cleaned, 24 teeth versus 32. Only makes sense doesn’t it?
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