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Somewhat Loved and Lost: Wisdom Teeth

Somewhat Loved and Lost: Wisdom Teeth

wisdom teeth out Somewhat Loved and Lost: Wisdom Teeth

Wisdom teeth out and looking like a grumpy chubby kid

It was meant to be just another routine cleaning – the standard set of x-rays, plaque scraping, brushing, flossing, followed by a joyful exit away with goodie bag in tow (this dentistry goes out of their way with the goodie bag, take a look at my Instagram for proof – but that didn’t quite happen, kind of.

Since I haven’t had x-rays in sometime, no one has really checked up on my wisdom teeth to see what they’ve been up to. The general assumption was that they weren’t ever coming down. Of course, though, what is the first rule you learn in many situations? Don’t make assumptions.

“Your teeth are really healthy, even the enamel,” said the hygienist. “Even the wisdom teeth – they’re just growing at 90˚ on the bottom, though. The other bottom wisdom tooth isn’t growing at 90˚ but it is certainly pushing up against your second molar.” I’m pretty sure that could be translated to “take them out, stat.”

Now, this took a minute to process. I didn’t think it was possible for a tooth to grow at a completely wrong angle (i.e. sideways), but there you have it, folks, anything is possible, even with teeth.

Soon after, the dentist arrived – Dr. Karen Ip. Somewhere in between exchanges of hello and looks at my x-rays, we discussed the depressions left on my molars (or “dimples,” as I optimistically spun it) due to my clenching and advised on a mouthguard that is thicker than those fancy Invisalign braces, but not thick enough to be used for field hockey. That’s right – my immediate thought was whether or not I could use the $900 mouthpiece for more than “just sleeping.”

But back to those darn wisdom teeth. The real concern wasn’t the one growing in at 90˚, but the one that was getting too comfortable with his friend, second molar. This act of getting too cozy meant that if anything bad were to happen, they’d both go down together – sounds a little Bonnie and Clyde, doesn’t it? Anyway, it was certain that that one would have to be extracted, and it would be up to a consult by a referral to determine the fate of the rest of’em.

So arrives my 8:45 AM appointment the following Thursday with Dr. Michael Marshall, the oral surgeon. Upon taking another round of x-rays with a rotating scanner (if you need a visual, think of that ridiculous 360˚ body scanner where you are in mid-jumping jack position), not only do we notice the all-too-cozy wisdom tooth, but also the 90˚ fellow who is also trying to warm his way up to his second molar neighbour. In short, the suggestion was just to remove them all.

At this point, my options are for just local anesthetic around my mouth or a little bit of general anaesthesia to calm me down from waving my arms in the air as we go about sawing my gums down. You can guess what I opted for by the subsequent use of my cellphone to have someone pick me up thereafter. I honestly thought I’d just be able to walk out Liz Lemon style, or at least be hallucinating like she did after Jack Donaghy picked her up from the dentist’s office.

Since I wasn’t completely under, I did have the thrills of hearing mini saws cut around my gums, and little picks crack at my wisdom teeth, followed by mini pliers for extraction. Really, it wasn’t that glorious, but it sure was fun to kind of watch. I figured I might as well enjoy it all since the bill was almost $2300 (even after dental insurance). Really, I just opted to dub it a “once in a lifetime experience” crossed off my bucket list. And hey, I had a view.

dds michael marshall flatiron Somewhat Loved and Lost: Wisdom Teeth

View from Dr. Michael Marshall's surgical room

The subsequent hours aren’t really that much fun – trust me. Walking over to CVS with gauze in your mouth and pointing to your ID as proof of age and standing about in pain as the numbing wears off isn’t as difficult as trying to shove the ibuprofen and amoxicillin over what you believe to be an engorged tongue (when really, everything is just numb) and dribbling enough water for you to swallow.

So, that loopy feeling that you’re supposed to have pain killers? Nothing. The extreme pain? Not really. Discomfort? Oh yes!

It’s one of those times that you thank websites like Seamless and Delivery.com, because there really is no way to phone in an order and you don’t want to go outside at all, especially since for the first few hours, your mouth looks like you were part of Tyler Durden’s Fight Club. But after living off congee and being holed up for two days, there’s nothing like showing your blown-up face off to the world in all its glory by grocery shopping for Orthodox Easter and treating yourself to tea and much more savoury soft foods.

There you go, my somewhat forgotten about and somewhat loved wisdom teeth are now lost, hacked into little bits and only to be remembered by a $2000+ bill. At least, they chose to leave some kind of impression on my life (although I’d have just preferred the sentimental value of keeping the large chunks of enamel as opposed to the tab).

May 6, 2013 0 comments
Letting This One Get Away

Letting This One Get Away

401 dvp Letting This One Get Away

Highway 401 meets DVP at sunset

Speeding down the highway, the odometer’s needle steadily drifted between markers for 100 and 120 kilometres/hour. The exits became less unfamiliar as I left the east end of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area). Then, I quickly looked down at the clock. It was 3:30 PM.

The Crossing Guard would be there. Or at least, I think he would.

I thought about pulling off the expressway, and heading into the collector’s lane to make the local exit. Actually, the idea had crossed my mind before I even left the Whitby Starbucks on Consumers Drive; I would be simply refilling my gas tank there instead of at the station besides the coffee joint. I decided otherwise, refilling the almost depleted tank before heading onto the 401.

Where the exits seem to fly by and missing them become so common, it felt as though everything was frozen in motion and time. The option just made itself so present, signalling me to get off the highway and onto the local roads, en route to the gas station by my old house. You can’t help but ask yourself, though, for what purpose?

There was no plan or follow-through for after pulling into the gas station. Was I just to watch his interactions with other young girls? Or was I to approach him with the burning questions that had followed me for the last four-and-a-half years of why didn’t he have any qualms of what he did, and who his daughter was at the University if she really did teach at NYU like he had said those many years before. The two questions, seemingly so far removed from one another, yet so inextricably close, both stand in equal footing in putting me at unease; the former haunted me whereas the latter kept me on constant guard.

The decision not to press the issue legally was already made on my part. I reasoned after filing my note with the police that I had other things to do than to settle old scores, but that truth was partial. Sure, I may not have cared to have to deal with court appearances and have my identity revealed in exchange, finally, for his, but the decision not to pursue was more so for the third party involved – ZZ Teacher D. Even if the proceedings resulted in nothing on the grounds of it being a “he said versus she said,” ZZ Teacher D would still be dragged into the mess that I dug up on account of she being the one I told and the obligatory respondent. And though I asked her to keep mum, discretion and policies aren’t for minors to dictate.

Those few seconds in which I argued with myself whether or not to go into the collector’s lane quickly passed. I made up my mind. I kept driving. I just kept on driving and sped past the exit signs.

Evidently, all of this gnaws at me still. Letting “this” go without answers isn’t something that I am used to, especially when soem kind of resolve is so much within reach. I don’t get to tie up the loose ends here – they just dangle.

In the midst of it all, I don’t have ZZ Teacher D as a friend anymore – that decision wasn’t mine, she made it without my knowing. And probably, that’s what hurts the most about all of this now – losing a good friend.

In purest simplicity, the only decision I made was to talk about it, and everything else before and thereafter was out of my hands.

Image via Flickr (user: nayukim)

March 26, 2013 0 comments
Firsts: A Lesson in Mussels

Firsts: A Lesson in Mussels

mussels shell Firsts: A Lesson in Mussels

Pull those mussels from their shells!

Every time I sit down alone with a bowl of mussels, whether steamed in beer or wine, I can’t help but think back to a particular August evening in 2008.

It was one of my first nights in Paris — I had spent the day exploring and taking in the city, beginning at my hotel near M˚ Voltaire and ending at the Arc de Triomphe (I had an inexplicable aversion to the subway system for those first couple days). I was hankering for a hearty meal but wasn’t sure what it was that I wanted to feast upon; I walked through the streets, quickly scanning menus and peering through the glass panes to see what patrons were eating.

Somewhere between the name swap of Rue de Rivoli and Rue Saint-Antoine was where I learned to eat mussels – the French way. I took a seat outside and took a gander at reading the menu; there were so many ways to have your mussels prepared what with all the different broths. It was then that the gentleman sitting at the next table (really, we were barely arm’s reach across, and positioned diagonal from one another) asked if I was confused. Undecided was the more apt word to describe what was going through my mind when I asked him what was his favourite bowl of moules-frites. The rest didn’t matter – what he said or what I picked, it all ended up being delicious and a learning experience.

He partook in conversation with my then incredibly limited French. I comprehended most of what he said, but my words sputtered out whenever I thought of a reply, but none of it seemed to matter. In that short hour, we exchanged what we enjoyed about the city, what food there was to eat and what I must simply try (i.e. steak frites), where offices actually were (turns out they were deceptively in the buildings that may very well also be homes), and about occupations and aspirations. But all of it except for one moment during our coinciding dinners was a complete blur of gathered plausible memories.

When our bowls arrived, he chuckled at my use of the mini fork to eat my mussels, fumbling with the shell in one hand and fork in the other.

“Is this how Canadians eat?” he asked. Truth be told, I wasn’t a frequent enough mussel eater back then so it wasn’t as though I could serve as the spokesman on behalf of all Canadians as to how we dine on our mussels. But for the sake of the conversation, I answered with a matter-of-fact “yes.” Perhaps I was charming or just plain silly (I’d like to think the former, but it’s most likely the latter), but then eagerly asked if I would like to eat my bowl of steaming seafood the “French way.” Of course, I took him up on his offer – after all, wasn’t that the point of living in another country to learn new customs?

Setting aside all utensils, he carefully picked up an empty shell with his right hand and told me that it was the only tool I’d need. Picking a random shell from the heap with the other hand, he opened and closed the empty shell with the grip of thumb and index finger, and then pinching the flesh from the meaty shell.

“And when your ‘eating tool’ isn’t as ‘bouncy’ anymore, you have a whole bowl to pick from to use next.” And with that, I became educated in mussel-eating and would share it with friends in the coming years whenever we’d dine out.

After he finished his meal, he bid me an adventurous year in Paris before downing his last sip of water, picking up his motorcycle helmet from the ground and riding off into the night. And that was the first and last time I ever met him — one of the many strangers who showed me that Paris could be welcoming and kind, despite the countless tales of otherwise that I would hear from friends in the coming months and years.

As for the bistro itself, there were quite a few times after where I would seek out the restaurant. I never found it, though I am certain to this day that it was along the Rue Saint-Antoine or Rue de Rivoli. If you wonder what I paid, I remember not paying more than 12€ for the bowl with fries, and a beer.

So coming back to this evening when I sought out a bowl of beer-steamed mussels at my one of my favourite jaunts – Upstate Craft Beer and Oyster Bar. It may look barbaric when I put the utensils to the wayside and only bother with a napkin on my lap before rolling up my sleeves and diving in with both hands, but hey, it’s what I was taught.

Image credit: Flickr (user: abbyladybug)

February 18, 2013 0 comments