When the Bleeding Stops

Losing a piece of yourself in order to move forward.

They say: “All good things must come to an end.” Vacations, family gatherings, a piece of birthday Godiva chocolate cheesecake, a piece of yourself…

I have a blue t-shirt I like to wear that has a Superman emblem emblazoned on the front. I wore it last Sunday before a visit to the dentist. I updated my Facebook status that day (not with a cat meme this time as per usual), but with this entry:

When the color has set for the day, the superhero cape slips into the laundry basket, and only black and white honesty with ghostly flickers of yourself remain, someone somewhere else is also looking into their unfamiliar past, trying to imagine tomorrow. And if we’re very lucky, tomorrow comes brightly. I’ll see you after surgery.”

For the past five years I have known that my autoimmune disease and treatment have been taking my teeth. At my 20 year high school reunion I knew I was heading down the road I saw friends from online support groups going through as my bottom teeth began breaking, yet with illness, the most minor of procedures often come with a host of complications. We began a long goodbye each time I sat in the dental chair. At first, we filled the gap with a temporary filling. “Jon, your teeth aren’t long for this world.” I knew.

It was my turn to look into my past now. I remembered smiling for headshots as an actor. I remembered savoring penne pasta ala vodka in a beachfront restaurant on summer break. I remembered not needing to remember because my teeth were just…there. As I return to writing after a hiatus, I share a letter I wrote, not unlike my resignation letter from teaching, but a letter to me:

Hey there,

Taking the last of my remaining teeth out for their last hurrah before they’re removed on Monday. My smile was never perfect, but it was mine. You wish you appreciated these things “before.” You wish you didn’t care that they’re just teeth. But you do. I have bright, shiny new ones picked from a color palette that will now cover my palate — ready to put in when the bleeding stops. Autoimmune. Treatment. You never said you’d go this far. But…am I dressed for a night out and furthermore, what should I treat them to? A brownie with walnuts? Taffy apple to save me some money, perhaps? It’ll be good. I’ve made it this far. They say all good things must come to an end. I just didn’t think so soon at 42. But I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones. I saved up and can afford these teeth by taking a quarter off from grad school. My body is strong enough to endure this. They’re just teeth…

Love,

Jon

I normally don’t give them sugar, but what the hell. Go for it! I give them a huge, chunky, chocolate peanut butter cookie to send them off. And I thank them for 42 years of life. In the morning I take the floss from the counter and slide it through the four remaining gaps. I squeeze the whitening Crest onto my purple toothbrush and massage the gums and each of my teeth for the last time. I rinse with mouthwash. They’re almost dead, but I want them to be clean.

I sit in the chair.

“Should I remove my lower denture?” My dentist says no and tells me the thing I need to hear:

“I know they’re just teeth. But they’re part of you. I know. It’s hard.” She places a hand on my shoulder while the numbing takes place.

I keep my eyes closed for 60 minutes for the final six extractions. The right canine hangs on. He doesn’t want to leave. “It’s ok. You can go now,” I silently communicate before opening my eyes to catch a glimpse of a beautiful pink acrylic gum and straight shiny teeth out of the side of my eye before shutting them tightly once more as they are placed in my mouth. I feel something strange. Foreign. Smothering my mouth. I begin to breathe as the blood is wiped from my face. I don’t look until it’s all over.

I smile. Is this what I would look like if I hadn’t gotten sick? They’re pretty.

I’m instructed to not chew for 2–3 weeks. Oh, have I been creative with vegetable purées, and protein powder shakes. I’m getting my nutrients. I’m a bit thinner, too. It doesn’t hurt at all. I’m fatigued to put it lightly, but it’s lessening. I’ve waited to have my mouth back for years, but now it’s here and I feel silly for allowing a tear to fall. They’re only teeth. It takes almost a week for these tears to quietly stream down my face. But as they say: all good things must come to an end.

I took them out yesterday to clean them. I don’t look in the mirror. I can’t yet do so. I don’t want to see the nothingness. I will follow up tomorrow per scheduling. Perhaps I’ll get to chew this week?

But as all good things must come to an end, I can’t deny each time I purée a tomato with carrots, eggplant, zucchini, and garlic that I am making plans for the things I will do with a smile. Headshots? Smile widely? Eat without fear once I figure out how to chew? So simple. Yet not. New things lie ahead and sometimes you need to remove the decay for life to grow. All good things must come to an end. I believe it. For hope. I must.

Until next time…

Jonathan

Jonathan smiles with his teeth one day after surgery. Before and after pictures can be found on Instagram