“I thought you’d get more time out of this tooth,” he says
with a sigh.
Overhead the TV is broadcasting interviews with the USA
hockey team, wearing their gold medals.
“Is there something I can do? Should I brush more often?
Take calcium?”
Another sigh.
“It’s just a matter of time now. We don’t usually remove
teeth until there’s pain or swelling.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
So there’s a reprieve, of sorts. I get to keep this molar
until it becomes painful.
The medalists smile, young faces filled with shiny white
teeth. Teeth that aren’t being rejected by their gums.
I continue my questions, hoping for some word of hope, some
instruction for preservation. It’s small comfort to realize that there’s
nothing I can do: the roots of my molars just aren’t normal, and so they don’t
really work. But I’m only 43. I didn’t expect to be discussing tooth implants
with my dentist today.
This is the worst part of aging. It’s the unexpected parts.
The random chin and neck hairs that sprout overnight and are somehow a full
inch long. The way my newly limp skin droops around my neck. The surprising
shifts in menstruation.
My birthday was Tuesday. Everyone wishes me well and asks me
how it went. What is there to say? It was a good day, in a good life that I
have worked very hard to create. A life in which, I’m learning, there is no way
to sit back and rest on one’s laurels. Because a good life is also a life where
there is constant change. As a parent, I’m teaching my child, the love of my
life, how to successfully move away and live without me. As a wife I’m
investing my energy and intimacy into another mortal, which means one day I
will be left without a partner (or he will). As a coach, I pour out love and
support to equip a person to move ahead without my help.
I’m not happy about potentially losing my tooth. But I will
adjust and move forward. And once I get comfortable, my body will jump into
another surprise of middle age. Life will happen no matter how I feel about it.
I might as well choose acceptance and find joy.
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