“But
his arms were so stiff ... they stayed up straight in the air for more than a
week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off.
And I think – but I am not sure – that that is why he is always called
Pooh.” ~A.A. Milne
With the majority of my beloved
sit-coms down from production for the Holidays, I lumbered Penny-the-Pooh-like into
my yearly den of hibernation for a long winter’s nap.
As Mother Nature commands before
such a state of metabolic inactivity, I’d fed shamelessly and relentlessly from
Craft Services on my last show, pawing and devouring as much free hearty food
as possible at every catered meal, complimented by the inhalation of a variety
of pies, cakes, cookies, cream puffs and brownies for desserts. (There were actual CREAM PUFFS!) And with my tummy nice and round for the
seasonal slumber, our last sit-com already picked up for another run (again –
no guarantee of steady employment for me), but never fearing that work will
always come, I did my best to ignore the creepy little canker sore under my
tongue...
“This is a prescription for an oral
paste” the gentlest Dentist whatever lived finished his butterfly-like inspection
of flitting wispily around inside my mouth.
“Just apply it with a Q-Tip at night, and it will form a nice barrier
for the sore to heal” he assured me.
And fifty bucks later at the
pharmacy, he was quite right!
Well, for a week or so... Until...
Waking up at 2:00am with bright red
spittle on my pillow and face, I “calmly” called the phone service to see just
when my Dentist would be available in the office that morning. “I’ll be there at 8:00am” I ever-so
professionally informed them, Spock-logically prepared for nothing more than maybe an
antibiotic, refusing to let my anxiety get the best of me.
After all, I had plenty of time to
hop in the shower, put on some make-up, style my fabulous ponytail, select my
wardrobe and sit quietly for FOUR MORE HOURS.
Oh,
bother...
But there were more tasks I could
achieve! And rather than dealing with
the hooker who lives upstairs and parks behind my car, I pulled out a leopard
print change purse, and counting out quarters, I made certain that I had enough
bus fare for a ride to the Dentist (maybe two miles down the Boulevard), a
jaunt to the pharmacy if need be, a secure amount of coinage to ensure my
arrival home, and just to be on the safe side, an extra $1.75 for any error in metro
miscalculations if necessary.
Additionally, I’d recently received
some sort of new-fangled missive from my Insurance company for ordering
prescriptions on-line (I think), but not knowing for sure whatever importance
the cut-out thingy might entail, I promptly pulled my wallet out of my purse
and added it to the Las Vegas hand of medical cards that I’ve been dealt of
late. (Did I win?! Is that a Royal Flush?!)
And so I sat quietly and “calmly”
for another three and a half more hours.
...OK, BLATANT LIE! My mouth was still full of bright red
spittle, my anxiety was peaking and I’d already begun to mentally write my last
will and testament!
>>><<<
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” the
once again gentlest Dentist whatever lived used his gossamer fingertips to peer
as possibly unobtrusively at my newly formed multiple canker sores under my
tongue. “Oh sweetie, I’m afraid you’re
going to have to see an oral surgeon...” he sighed despondently. “Can you do that today?” he fretted, genuinely
rueful that he was unable to help me.
“Yes of course” I nodded. “Bring him in here!” I cheered, already
exhausted from the morning and more than happy to just lay there like a lump.
“No, no, no, he’s in Beverly
Hills. Shall I call and see if he can
squeeze you in today?”
“But, but, but, I came here by
bus...” I whimpered.
“He can see her right away!” someone
from the inner office piped up whilst holding the phone.
>>><<<
And thus Penny-the-Pooh was destined for yet
another unwelcome adventure...
>>><<<
With a reliable cab company on the
contact list of my NOT-smart-phone, I piled into the taxi for a ride into the
zip code of the rich and famous.
To be sure, there exists a certain
amount of “entitlement” in Beverly Hills if you will, and perhaps my utter
fatigue had propelled my inner self-preservation to a higher level than I’m
generally accustomed to.
Why, I was literally chauffeured to
the surgeon’s office!
I was hand-delivered to the building
by my driver!
And wallowing sanctimoniously in the
fact that I possess a credit card with which to scuttle my royal highness ass to
and fro, I unzipped my purse to compensate my charioteer only to discover that
my wallet was nowhere to be found...
(Please
forgive my obscenity, but sometimes, there are no more appropriate words.) (And thank God, that
my Mom always insisted that I hide a twenty dollar bill somewhere separate inside
my purse!)
“I don’t have my wallet with me” I
explained Un-Spock illogically to the oral surgeon’s receptionist, suddenly
panicking that perhaps my twenty gazillion pound wallet had somehow been
miraculously pick-pocketed during metro transit. “But here’s the card from my Dentist with his
notes. I’m sure that they can vouch for
who I am and my insurance” I mumbled, curling up most unpleasantly into a teeny
tiny ball of nerves in the waiting lounge.
But with the opening of the door,
and a rather officious “we have an appointment for him”, the matriarchal wife
indicated her rather annoyed husband in tow; oddly, I suddenly didn’t feel
quite so nervous.
“May I please have his photo ID for
our records?” the receptionist asked pleasantly.
“Photo ID” the wife elbowed her hubby,
who harrumphed loudly at the entire intolerable process.
“I’m standing right here. Take my picture if you need it” he
Spock-logically suggested. (My hero!)
And having been led into a Dental
Chamber of Doom for whatever fresh hell awaited me, I couldn’t help but tune in
to the sounds of the nurses leading my Hero to a separate room.
“How tall are you?”
“How tall am I? I'm five foot four”.
“Do you know your weight?”
“Of course I know my weight.”
“Can you tell me your weight?”
“Yes I can” he snarked. “What, do you need my shoe size too?”
>>><<<
As luck or The Universe would have
it, I’m delighted to report that my wallet was indeed at home (*whew*), I was rescued by a friend who
was able to give me a lift back to my apartment (nothing like being stuck somewhere in the heart of Beverly Hills with only
eight dollars in your pocket, FFS) and I’d even successfully made a
follow-up appointment with the oral surgeon for a CT scan and possible
surgery.
But as the surgeon was running hours
behind on my return visit with his paws in someone else’s gaping maw (yikes), the staff and I managed to
achieve two more tasks – one being my CT scan (I don’t care how heavy that leaden x-ray apron is, I still almost
managed to Houdini my way out of the room!); and two, being the successful
uploading of the movie “Airplane!” from Netflix onto a wide screen TV to keep
me cheerful!
Until...
Muting the movie as “Dr. Giggles”
entered the room (someone really does
need to create a “sarcastic” font because the man has NO sense of humor); I
listened patiently to my prognosis and gaped in awe at the 360 degree pictures
of the insides of my head. With a circle
and a swipe on the computer, my spinal column (well, my neck) disappeared; another circle/swipe and my nose had
been erased (insert obligatory Hollywood
rhinoplasty joke here) and with some fancy-schmancy finagling of every
angle of my teeth, Dr. Giggles confirmed my rather common condition of having
“Torus”.
“No, I’m a Capricorn” I attempted
light-hearted humor; the response to which was nothing more than stoic
blinking. (Geez! Talk about a tough
audience!)
Yes, apparently, “torus
mandibularis” is a bony growth in the mandible along the surface nearest to the
tongue which occurs generally on both sides of the lower part of the
mouth. “It’s a simple procedure. I’ll just slice open your gums and sand down
the bones.”
Wait,
whaaat?
“You may also have an infected
tooth, but I won’t know for sure until I get in there. If I have to pull it I will, but we’ll just
do a bone graft if need be. Okay, I must
go back to surgery now” he deftly tossed his latex gloves into a bin and
vanished into thin air as a nurse led me into an intimate consultation room.
“Would you like to go over
everything one more time for clarity?” the nurse asked, as apparently my
pea-brain was sort of visibly spinning.
But with my insistence of the typing
of a signed waiver that my parents can call and ask any questions that they
need to; meticulous note-taking of all possible procedural activities; a rough
financial estimate of costs lest my insurance carrier doesn’t approve the
surgery, and somewhat calmed by the fact that nothing invasive would occur that
day (I’d ingested no food or drink for
eight hours lest I might be put under sedation) I slurped down two bottles
of water in the office, contemplated a hearty (yet SOFT!) rewarding dinner for
my bravery and asked only two more questions.
“So can you show me what Torus
surgery looks like?” I queried “calmly” as the nurse had already logged on to her
computer to print out my legal waiver.
“NO, NO, NO! Don’t look at THIS page!” she squealed as I
nearly threw up in my mouth at the visuals.
“Here! See?! Just a few simple stitches, warm salt water
rinses and you’ll be all better in just a few days!” she reassured me serenely.
“OK then” I Spock-logically regained
my composure after I stopped hyperventilating with my head between my knees. (I’m
not particularly proud of such moments, but we’re all human, and sometimes we
falter. Still, I choose to own these experiences, even if they’re not
necessarily the societal norm.) “No
bother” I nodded ever-so Penny-the Pooh calmly, supplicated by the nurse in the
Hundred Acre Woods of Beverly Hills. “So, last question just out of
curiosity? Where does the bone graft
come from?” I wondered most innocently and secretively if there existed some
manner of unmentionable epoxy in “Area 51” that genius scientists had rendered
in a laboratory from aliens wherein of which one not dare governmentally speak.
“Oh, that would be from medically
donated cadavers”.
Wait,
WHAAAT???
>>><<<
“Do you get to select your cadaver?
Can you decide if you want a dead man or woman? Do you get to know the person’s name? I’d want to hand pick just who’s going to be
in my mouth” he asserted duly and forthwith.
“For the love of God, I had to special order the turkey chili for
dinner! And what if they pour some dead
guy’s bones into your gums who liked sushi?
You don’t eat sushi!”
“True!” I chimed in. “But I’d never
eat another meal alone for the rest of my life!”
>>><<<
To date of publishing this post, I’m holding off on the oral surgery
pending my insurance. And with the
approval of my oral surgeon that I’m permitted a soft (not just liquid) diet of soup, I’m gnawing cheeseburgers once again
relentlessly. I’ve too become an addict
of milkshakes from my local Fatburger (yes,
I DO want whipped cream on top, thank you very much!) which entail 910
calories and 45 grams of fat and wicked delicious chocolate frothiness; but
with gauze in my mouth nightly so as not to irritate anything and lots of warm
salt water rinsing, I choose to believe I’m on the mend!
As to the surgery, I suppose I will eventually have to have the Torus (Tori plural?) removed, but certainly
not without a second opinion and/or financial comparisons of oral surgeons who
are not located in the heart of the wealth of Beverly Hills. (Yipes!
It’s an immediate ten dollar co-pay just to walk into the Suite!)
As always, thanks for popping by kind readers, and I’ll do my best to extricate
my head from of the “hunny” jar and get back to writing more frequently. Sincere apologies for not keeping you posted,
but sometimes, you just have to unplug!
Wishing you all a prosperous and healthy New Year,
~Penny-the-Pooh-Toothed-Bear
