A couple of weeks ago, the piece of taffy I was chewing stuck to a broken tooth. (Yes, I knew that chewing taffy on a broken tooth was a risky thing to do. But even at my age, ya gotta live a little.) The next bite pulled a tooth fragment clean out of my gum. But the pulling was so neat and painless that I really believed the remaining bit of tooth wouldn’t give me any trouble. And it didn’t until last Thursday, when I was visiting Grace and Dan at their apartment. That’s when the area surrounding the tooth tidbit tickled, then throbbed, and then hurt like mad. I ended up driving back home with my right hand steering, my left hand cradling my aching jaw, and one eye closed. (Don’t ask me why it helped to keep one eye closed. It just did.)
So the top line on today’s to-do list says that I should call the dentist, who will undoubtedly tell me to call the oral surgeon to arrange to have the little scrap of tooth extracted. What I’m wondering is, how much should I be dreading the procedure?
Will extracting that wee bit of tooth be as easy as drawing a seedling from the soft earth on a sunny day? Or is the tooth so dang wee that it’s too small for pincers, and will therefore have to be dug out with fearsome gum-shredding implements?
I don’t know which of the two scenarios will eventually play out. But I do know that St. Apollonia is going to be hearing from me very often during these next couple of weeks!