There is an English actor named Michael Gambon (“Professor
Albus Dumbledore” in the Harry Potter
movies) who in a play I once saw him in was miraculously able to instill a
congenitally boring character with a death grip on the audience’s
attention. Although, as written, the
character was screamingly uninteresting, when he appeared on stage, it was
impossible to take your eyes off him.
I am nowhere near that talented. At my best, I am, as a writer, generally able
to make interesting stories
interesting. If they are not, however,
like fish falling below the “keeper” category, I am proclaimed (new word) to throw the
substandard specimen back.
This situation is particularly vexing when I think I have
reeled in a particularly “good one” and it turns out…
It isn’t.
End of pescatorial analogies.
The foregoing was included to explain why I have been holding
back committing the following incident to blogatorial scrutiny.
“Did you have to write
it at all?”
A reasonable question, Blue Italics Person, but for some inexplicable
reason, although a borderline example, the answer is yes. If you are a professional, sometimes, like a
pitcher taking the mound without his best stuff, you have to suck it up and
pound that strike zone as best as you can.
End of baseball analogies.
Backstory
It was determined that two of my wisdom teeth had to come
out. I was dreading that inevitability
like Doomsday. More than heart
surgery. I know that’s bizarro, but I
had never had heart surgery and I had had teeth pulled. And – “Massive Understatement Alert!” – I did
not care for the experience.
Adding to that nightmarish recollection was a family rumor
that my paternal grandfather had died having a tooth removed. It may not have been a wisdom tooth, but what
difference did that make?
Evidentiary Factoid:
A tooth extraction could kill you.
Okay, it was 1945, and that might make a difference. On the other hand it might not. What if I have a genetic predisposition for
dying in the chair?
That would scare anyone,
wouldn’t it? Supplementing the memory of
my own “Rendezvous with Dentistry” where they put me “put under” with
ether? (It smells like burning rubber.) I am aware they don’t use that anymore. But when you’re frightened – and borderline
crazy – and you’ve been accessorizing that encounter for north of half a
century…
All things considered:
It was not going to be good.
I did everything I could think of to get ready. The week before my appointment, I doubled up
on my meditation, hoping to float into Perdition on the blissful accompaniment of
Om. (My haircutter, who caps all of my haircuts
with a blessing, gave me a meditation CD, which I immediately appended to my
routine. Before you knew it, I was
meditating up a storm.
Also, invoking the assistance of “Guided Imagery”, I
conjured the vision of “Iron Earl”, the protective adult portion of my personality – yes, I have one – who vowed to be with me every step of the way, so I
would never, as Oscar Hammerstein poetically put it, walk alone.
On the appointed “Day of Reckoning”, I wore a t-shirt – on
view in my official “Birthday Picture” – featuring the “The Great Ones” – a
Mount Rushmore replication with the faces of four renowned Indian chiefs
chiseled onto it instead of the presidents.
On top of that I wore a sweatshirt adorned with the fully
head-dressed profile of another (unidentified) Indian chief.
I wanted to “face the music” with an indomitable posse.
And now I was ready.
My apprehension nominally relieved by the “Consolation Prize”
known to all writers facing difficult times:
“At least I’ll get story out of it.”
I show up or my appointment.
They put me to sleep and they do what has to be done.
What can I tell you?
I will not say, “It was nothing.”
But it wasn’t that much.
Not that I would enjoy having my teeth extracted on a
regular basis,
But it was not at all terrible. (Expensive, maybe, but not terrible.)
I went home in a fog of nitrous oxide and general
anesthetic. When it wore off, I took
painkillers, although my condition rarely rose to the level of actual
“pain.” (And by the way, I could do
without the word “painkiller.”)
I spend my “Recovery Day” watching Pee Wee’s Great Adventure with my daughter.
There was some bleeding, rounds of gauze applications.
Later, when there were questions or concerns, we called the kind and patient
Dental Assistant Veronica who would set us straight on how to deal with
them.
Also included were servings of soft food. Cream of rice, mashed potatoes and baby food.
A dress rehearsal for ninety.
A few days later, save for the two brand new excavational
areas in my mouth…
I was back to normal.
What did I tell you?
It is not much of a story.
Would I have traded a rockier experience for a superior
anecdote?
No.
But, like all writers I imagine…
I am a little disappointed.
