The Bloody Doors Off

Hello? (Hello? Hello? Hello?)Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone home?
Come on now
I hear you’re feeling down
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again
Relax
I’ll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts?

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I’ve got that feeling once again
I can’t explain you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb

Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd

Well, that’s done.

They’ll have to reassess sometime in the near future to see what else needs to be worked on; if more teeth need to come out, or taking care of cavities.

I’ve said it before, and it bears repeating: Nitrous is the Shit. Although I’m not sure why it’s referred to as laughing gas. Sure it makes you feel stoned, but no giggle fits. And it wears off the instant you remove the mask.

Television has been lying to us.

Another big day tomorrow.

Four bottom teeth comin’ out.

Now I just need to …

Actually, there’s nothing I need to do.

And there it is.

Stage five.

Acceptance.

I fucked up my teeth.

My fault. No one else’s.

I’m paying the price.

Granted, I look better with the top plate in.

I just haven’t figure out how to eat properly with ’em.

Given that I am a vain motherfucker.

I’ll probably get the bottom plate.

At least take the mold tomorrow.

The next few days are gonna be fun.

If this goes like the previous procedure, I’ll be out of the chair in an hour.

And eating gauze well into the afternoon.

Huh. I wonder if I should be wearing the top plate while the gums heal.

I’d think so. I’ll have to ask.

No pictures though.

Blame my vanity.

It’s funny, innit?

I write about this shit. No holds barred.

But I refuse to let anyone see my smile without the dentures.

Who’d have thought that was the line I wouldn’t cross.

I’ll tell you about my heavy drinking days.

How I conned a beer out of a poor old guy who just wanted someone to listen to him.

(I didn’t do AA, but I wish I could make amends to him.)

But showing holes in my mouth? Nuh uh.

I might write more later.

They started up on the construction site at 6:30am.

Which I think is illegal.

Even with the extended hours given them by the Province.

Fuck Doug Ford.

Either way.

Fuck the bastard.

And I got coffee grounds in my cup this morning.

More than usual, for a Keurig.

Sigh.

Gonna be a long day.

I thought today was Wednesday.

Steeled myself all day for what tomorrow would bring.

And now realizing I have yet another 24 hours to wait.

It’s like the unexpected voicemail from your doctor.

They don’t say anything in the message.

Aside from asking you to call back.

Every disaster scenario plays across the back of your eyes.

And after three days of trying to reach her.

She tells you your blood pressure is a little high.

So cut out the salt.

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be.

Fine.

I haven’t written since we returned home.

Whatever muse visited me at the cottage stayed behind.

Even this is excruciating.

Searching for words.

The title popped into my head yesterday.

Looked up the rest of the lyrics.

Definitely doesn’t speak to how I feel.

Which is.

Kinda numb.

Mentally.

I had menial jobs waiting my return.

Knocked those out in no time.

End up going back to bed this morning.

Which I rarely, if ever, do during the week.

Always alert, should a request appear in my inbox.

Today I slept through one.

Got it in time.

Took half an hour.

I need to be alert this week.

Doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon.

Dentist on Thursday.

That’ll kill half my day.

Ugh.

This is Paul.
Paul didn’t take proper care of his teeth.
And now he’s losing a bunch of them.
Don’t be like Paul.

That’s a cautionary tale, if ever there was one.

Still not used to the buggers.

I can wear them for longer, but suspect I’ll be investing in Poligrip just the same.

No one wants me to pop these babies out at the dinner table.

Hehe. Had to look up how to spell ‘Poligrip’. I wanted to spell it Polygrip.

Puts a spin on the meaning, doesn’t it?

Random thought.

I wonder if Harold got left at the cottage?

Lost on that long road he wanted me to walk.

Here’s hoping.

Tonight I was reminded of a family tradition. Because there was no such thing as central air conditioning, you had to rely on a window-mounted air conditioner. These were expensive and always went to the nexus of the house, which in our case was the sitting room slash dining room. (We had a rec room in the basement that kept cold in summer.)

I remember my mother declaring, “It’s too hot; there’s no way I’m using the oven tonight. So it’s going to be a cold supper.”

Everyone, I’m sure, has their version of a cold supper. Ours was various slices of luncheon meat, devilled eggs, a tray of sliced cheese (the horror, “sliced”), pickles and olives, cold potato salad, a type of green salad (usually iceberg lettuce — what do you want, we were barely middle-class back in the 1970s), and buns if you wanted to make a sandwich with the meat and cheeses.

I’m sure there was more. And I remember how simple it seemed to prepare.

I know better now.

But I’m extremely thankful for that memory jog tonight.

I could hear my mom again.

Having trouble getting used to the dentures. The way the plastic hits my soft palette.

If there was less of it. I think that’d be fine.

Also having issues with not wearing them. It feels unnatural, not having front teeth.

And that’s not something, I think, is gonna change in the short-term.

Did I mention that I’m not done?

Bottom four front teeth come out Thursday.

Which prompts a new question.

Can I get along without bottom dentures?

Or will vanity.

Mostly comfort.

But a little vanity.

Will that bend the decision towards ‘yes’?

I hoped the passing storm would’ve answered that question.

Thunderstorms both thrill and terrify me.

The terror goes back to childhood. A summer storm, gale force winds slamming my door closed and 5-year old hands unable to twist the round handle, blinding-white lightning casting nefarious shadows along the wall. Thunderous booms echoing in my ears. That may have been my first ever panic attack.

But now I feel like Prospero in The Tempest. Bending nature to his will.

(To be honest, I can’t remember the full plot. I just hope it’s the right metaphor. Not like I’m Caliban or anything. (Again, I have no fucking clue what I mean. Just go with it.))

Back to the question.

Dentures or no?

People can see my bottom teeth when I talk.

Or.

They won’t.

And that terrifies me.

I did find some enjoyment at the cottage, make no mistake.

But we were in agreement: if we summer in cottage country again, there needs to be central air.

I need to ensure I’m always wearing sunscreen. (Got a fair bit pink.)

Apply the bug spray at the first hint of dusk.

I think I’d enjoy it more in the fall. A slight chill in the air. The leaves turning colour.

And the fire pit.

Had no desire to light the logs in the middle of a heat wave, especially at it would’ve invited more mosquitoes.

But October/November? Perfect.

Hi.

Harold here.

Came to say I visited our mutual friend earlier tonight.

Tried to convince him to go for a nice long walk on a secluded road.

The fucker didn’t listen.

But that’s alright.

He can’t ignore me forever.

Maybe not, Harold.

But I’m gonna fight you every inch of the goddamned way.