My teeth: an incisor’s guide
Today I shall introduce you to a part of my body I haven’t revealed to even my most intimate lovers. Behold the remnant of my original front tooth!
If you don’t feel special yet, you should. Grotesque yet hauntingly beautiful, my tooth remnant is a rare and precious sight—like a total eclipse of the sun, it appears for only an instant and then vanishes, not to be seen again for several years. This is because there is usually a false tooth cemented over it, hiding it from view.
My false tooth, which is conspicuous by its absence in this photo, is a masterpiece of modern ceramics technology. It looks exactly like a normal tooth, except for the frightening metal spike which protrudes from its base and extends over a centimetre up into my root canal. If you’re curious, and I know you are, you can see the spike in this recent dental x-ray:
Most of the time, my false tooth behaves just like any of my other teeth. In fact, since it is slightly whiter than its neighbours, it even sets an example for the rest to follow. But every few years the cement that holds it in place dissolves, and I am faced with a brief period of insurrection until I can get it fixed. And I have learned from painful experience that a false tooth is like a captured military officer: its first obligation is to escape.
As I write, my false tooth is making my existence a living hell. I can’t describe in words how annoying it is when a part of your body repeatedly falls off during use. No matter how carefully I bite and chew, it comes out when I’m eating. Earlier this week it dropped out in the shower and nearly slid into the drain. Yesterday I downed a glass of orange juice and nearly drank it. And until I get it re-glued, there is nothing I can do to stop the horror. Nothing.
Uh oh, I feel a flashback coming on. Cue the harp! To get the full effect, let your eyes unfocus for a moment before continuing.
* * *
There I was, sitting at my desk in Ms. Stein’s fifth grade class, minding my own business as only an introverted 10-year-old can. Then my designated childhood bully, Chris D, snuck up behind me and pushed my face into my desktop. I heard a sickening crunch, and suddenly I was staring down at a large portion of my front tooth, lying before me in three pieces.
The next thing I knew, Chris, Ms. Stein and I were at the principal’s office, and the calcium was hitting the fan. Chris, displaying the intellect that would someday fail to get him out of Port Alberni, claimed that he did grab my head but did not in fact push it into the desk, thus advancing an argument that I had deliberately smashed my own face in just to get him in trouble.
Mr. Erikson, the school principal, was a stern viking of a man, renowned for his compelling, fire-and-brimstone speeches about the stupidity of smoking that reduced us to tears. He did not believe Chris’s story, and his anger was great.
Mr. Erikson drove me to the dentist. By the end of that day, a pleasant spring day in 1984 when Yuri Andropov was the Russian head of state, my first false tooth was cemented into place. Later that year Mikhail Gorbachev came to power, and during his regime my tooth was replaced with a newer model. A few years later Boris Yeltsin took over, and I received my third and current false tooth.
In the meantime, Chris and I didn’t have much to do with each other after fifth grade. I went on to become an honours student and go to university. Chris went on to take up smoking and develop an aptitude for getting tossed, face-first, through plate-glass windows. I believe he is now a mediocre auto mechanic. It’s funny how things just seem to work out for the best, isn’t it?
Well, that’s about it for the flashback. Cue the harp! Unfocus! Refocus! And… action!
* * *
Here we are again in the present. A present in which Boris Yeltsin will soon be replaced as leader of the Russian Federation. Which means that my false tooth, as vigilant a follower of Russian politics as its predecessors, is itching to be replaced as well.
Earlier this evening I stood outside a buck-a-slice pizza place, and took a luxurious bite of a luxuriant MSG and Italian sausage pizza. Two chews later, I felt the horrible sensation of my front tooth clinking into my back molars. It is an awful, unnatural feeling, usually reserved for only boxers and hockey players. I hope to God that none of you ever have to feel this feeling.
I fished a few lumps of partially-chewed food out of my mouth, and found the errant tooth protruding from a piece of crust. Silently cursing, I stuck it back into its socket, hoping that no bits of pizza had found their way into the exposed root canal during the latest escape attempt. Mmm, it is appealing to imagine ancient pizza fragments entombed up inside my gums, far from the corrupting influences of toothbrush and floss.
Happily, this latest chapter in my sordid dental life is about to end. For alas, this tooth is not being granted the retirement it so obviously desires. Instead it will be, quite literally, pressed back into service. In mere hours, my tooth shall be firmly re-cemented into place—and if my dentist is to be believed, this time the re-cementing will be permanent. Yes, permanent. No more tooth escapes. Ever.
Could this really be the end?
Until next time, fair tooth.
If there is a next time.
Komrade. •
Originally published in The Peak, May 10 1999. Original title: “Glen’s teeth: an incisor’s guide”
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2007 update:
In November 2004, during the reign of Russian president Vladimir Putin, the false tooth that was re-cemented in the above column unexpectedly ruptured, and was replaced by my fourth and current false tooth. This latest tooth has behaved admirably so far, but, as Putin is scheduled to leave office in 2008, our period of détente may not last much longer.
Watch this space for further Glen Callender UFA false tooth updates.
2009 update:
In December 2008, a major chain of events involving my broken tooth was set in motion. Read the next chapter in the continuing saga here.
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