Dry Toast

In 68 minutes I'm going to lose my teeth. It won't be from an unexpected right hook to the jaw, or a face plant off of a curb that appeared out of nowhere. I'm losing my teeth because I simply didn't brush and floss, twice a day, every day, for the past 52 years.

It's my first time to an oral surgeon's office and I know I should be grateful that this unfortunate event hasn't taken place sooner, but I'm not. It's been two excruciating months since I made this appointment and I've had horrendous nightmares about men working on chain gangs, with their picks and hammers hacking away at my gums, perfectly unsyncopated. I'm scared to death.

I'm also starved to death. They forbade me any food, drink or cigarettes twelve hours prior to surgery. Why is it that 7 out of 7 mornings I don't even think about eating, yet this morning I could consume breakfast, lunch and dinner all in the same sitting? I decide to make a compromise with my hunger pains and slip in a piece of dry toast. Who will know? I'm also not allowed to have my morning coffee which, I will admit, has created a series of two-year-old-like tantrums. The only thing going for me is the fact that I don't smoke, so there will be no obsessive worrying over uncontrollable withdraw­als. I must say though, a cigarette sure sounds pretty good right about now...

I arrive at the oral surgeon's office, only to discover a quaint two story Victorian house, with purple lilac bushes embracing the cobblestone walkway, and an over-sized swinging chair gently swaying on the freshly painted porch. At first I am pleasantly surprised by its charm, although deep down inside I know it's a facade, cleverly designed to lure me in, to make me think I'm going to Grandma's house for a nice little visit. I know better, for inside that aesthetically pleasing house awaits the oral surgeon, aka the Master Extractor, and his Extraction Chamber.

I get out of the taxi, hoping for some catastrophic event to take place, anything that might get me out of this surgery - a thunderstorm that shuts down the power grid, or maybe a fallen meteorite that lands right on the cobblestone walkway. Of course none of this transpires, and I find myself disappointed over being so unlucky.

As I walk through the door I feel my nerves soften a bit. It does look a bit like Grandma's house and I have to give the Master Extractor credit for his attention to detail over creating this great facade. Below my feet are well-weathered hardwood floors, covered by elegant, tasseled area rugs. The walls are lined with flowered wallpaper, in soft blues and grays, dappled with mauve. And the winding staircase, oh how magnificent! I vividly see myself, as an eight-year-old, sliding down that banister in my Sunday best, sending my Grandmother into conniptions. I smile at the thought.

As I turn the corner I see the receptionist at the front desk, almost expecting her to be dressed the part with an ankle length skirt, a long sleeved, high collared blouse, adorned with a cameo at the neckline, and hair swept up into a tidy bun. Instead, I see heavily starched navy blue scrubs, adorned with a name badge, and a pair of white Keds peering out from beneath the pant legs. She is not my Grandmother, she is Brittany. Brittany smiles at me and I can't help but notice her pearly whites. She probably got herself a killer deal.

First, I'm asked to hand over my dentures so that they can be placed on the surgical tray, in preparation for my surgery. It's not a comforting thought, passing your teeth on to someone else, but I do so, praying that another patient doesn't walk out with them wrapped around their numb gums. I am then handed a lengthy form to fill out and find my eyes rolling into the back of my head as I hear Brittany explain "Since this is an extensive surgical procedure I need you to provide us with your prior medical history, current health condition, and prescription medications." I curse under my breath, frustrated that these forms could not have been sent to me prior. Thanks a lot Brittany...With shaky hands I begin filling in the blanks and checking all of the appropriate yes and no boxes.

As I finish the form Brittany promptly hands me another. This one I am terrified of, for it blatantly states that if they break my jaw, dig a big hole in my sinus cavity or even accidentally kill me, it's not really their fault. Quite alarming, to say the least, but nonetheless, I sign it. Lastly, I am informed they are running a tad bit behind schedule. I take a seat and realize the anticipation is becoming unfathomable. I find myself eyeing the front door.

Just in the nick of time, common sense appears, and instead of devising a sure to be botched get-away plan, which would likely involve Brittany mastering a quarterback sack, I search for a distraction and decide to make small talk with her by asking her if my name was selected for today's jaw breaking contest. She laughs and tells me that someone else was actually selected. I think she's joking but I'm not quite sure. Curiously, I ask her why I wasn't allowed to eat or drink this morning and she informs me that when using IV sedation, ones stomach needs to be empty so they won't throw up, asphyxiate, and die from their own vomit. My eyelids begin to sweat as I silently recall that damn piece of dry toast I slipped down my esophagus ... I can't tell her about it, out of sheer embarrassment, and I have no desire to be the subject of her scoldings and looks of disappointment. I silently admit, I failed, for I know that all I had to do was follow a couple of simple pre-op instructions. Now I have nothing left to do but sit and wait ... and wait ... and think about that damn piece of dry toast.

I am now about 8 minutes away from losing my teeth. I decide this is the appropriate time to thank my teeth for 52 wonderful years of service and find myself apologizing to them for not being as attentive as I should have been. I tell them if I had to do it all over again not only would I have made them a higher priority in my life but I would have also eaten more corn on the cob and barbecued ribs. It just won't be the same without them and my eyes moisten in final tribute.

My thoughts wander back to the present, in time to discover Brittany smiling at me. She knows my appointment with the Extraction Chamber is just minutes away and seems to find this amusing. I'm not so amused. My nerves are frazzled and my stomach twisted into jumbo-sized pretzels. It's a good thing it's empty -well, except for that damn piece of dry toast...

Oh No! My name is called. They've come to take my teeth. I suddenly find myself feeling very possessive over my teeth and begin questioning whether I can get any more use out of them. Silently I plead, I beg, and they respond with sharp jabs as a painful reminder that it's too late. The Master Extractor's Assistant leads me down the hallway and I follow on legs that have metamorphasized into spastic rubber bands. My eyes dart back and forth, searching for refuge, only to discover there is none. All I can do now is go quietly and surrender willingly.

There it stands before me -the Extraction Chamber. So many gadgets, so many monitors, so many sharp objects. I feel the need to flee. My heart begins to palpitate, my armpits begin to sweat, my head begins to swoon. I'm reluctant to let the Chamber claim its next victim yet the piercing pains in my gums start to scream, as if saying "Take them out, take them out, we can't take it anymore!".

The Master Extractor's Assistant seats me in a reclining chair and introduces herself. (I suppose it's a courtesy to know the names of the people who have your life in their hands.) She asks me when I last had something to eat or drink and again I fib about the damn piece of dry toast, telling her 11 :00 last night. I'm just not in the mood for a lecture. She proceeds by asking me how fat I am, how short I am and whether I'm allergic to anything so if they administer something that bloats me like a puffer fish and sends me into anaphylactic shock, it's again not their fault.

Next, she places an oxygen monitor on my finger. It looks like a fancy clothespin, so I and my quick wit ask her if she would be so kind to use it to hang up my britches, should my bladder let loose during the procedure. She responds with a stifled smirk, implying this wasn't the time for fun and games. I then take note of her dampened scrub top and attempt another wise crack by saying "It looks like yanking out the last victim's teeth worked you into a real sweat", to which she replied, "Actually the last patient had eaten a banana this morning and it came up, all over me and all over the surgery room floor." Panic and fear rush in! This damn piece of dry toast, which I just had to have, might actually kill me! And then I suddenly realize that I can't die today, definitely not today, for today I have sinned! I was a disobedient patient, a habitual liar, and apparently a bad comedian, to boot. She notices the look of anguish on my face and asks if everything is all right.· I lie again and say "It's all good."

She then places upon my head a shower cap, followed by a pair of sunglasses, which likely had belonged to The Roy Orbison Collection. She tapes the sunglasses along my forehead and down the bridge of my nose. I feel the tape pulling up on the tip of my nose and know, undoubtedly, that I look like Porky Pig, donning a cool pair of shades, while lounging under the bright fluorescent lights. I wonder if it's really necessary for them to strip away every ounce of my dignity. I am already humbled enough.

In an effort to help put my mind at ease, the Master Extractor's Assistant engages me in small talk. I start to pour out compelling stories about the good times I've had with my teeth: all of the delicious and not so delicious foods I had eaten, all of the kind and not so kind words I had spoken, all of the smiles and frowns I had displayed...all of the memories I had with these teeth, and now it was time to say good-bye.

In walks the Master Extractor. He looks like a jolly fella but I'm not fooled. I know he's come to claim my teeth and it's difficult not to feel animosity towards someone who's seizing something one hasn't quite come to terms with relinquishing. He casually introduces himself and tries to distract me with chatter while he inserts the IV into my arm. I clench my fist. Ouch! He then pulls Velcro straps over my arms and legs, securing them to the chair and my heart begins to pound. I feel as though I'm awaiting my last stay of execution. The Master Extractor notices the tense ripples running across my forehead and lets me know that the straps are simply to prevent my arms and legs from falling off the chair as I become relaxed. Seriously... is there a chance I might become relaxed?

At that moment I feel the fluid running through my veins. I close my eyes, expecting to drift off, but I am not feeling very drowsy. He asks me if I can hear him and I reply "Yes". He waits a few seconds longer and asks again. I say "Yes". Suddenly I fear that my luck has fled. My body has betrayed me and is rejecting the anesthesia! I will feel every tug and pull, I will hear every crack and fracture. That damn piece of dry toast will rise up in all its glory. My heart will flat line. My life will end ...

I feel a hand softly shake my shoulder. I look at the Master Extractor's Assistant and plead with her to give me another 5 minutes or so for I know I can fall asleep if I just try a bit harder. She loudly bellows, while shoving gauze into my mouth, and then reduces her bellow to a coy chuckle, as she politely informs me that I am finished. I'm dazed and confused and think I may have lost track of time. I'm almost positive I didn't finish the story about the time I used my front teeth to pull twelve stitches out of the back of my hand and I really wanted everyone to hear that one.

She rolls me out the back door, into the waiting taxi, and sends me off with a big grin and parade wave. I gaze back with blurred vision and find a grin creeping upon my own face, as I suddenly realize my extraordinary act of defeat: I conquered the Master Extractor! I defied the infamous Extraction Chamber! I even survived that damn piece of dry toast! As my mind rejoices over these accomplishments, I turn back around in my seat and notice the taxi driver beaming at me through his rear view mirror. I drunkenly, but proudly, smile back at him, displaying my brand new set of teeth.