Her email arrived shortly after Christmas with an apology for not phoning. Unable to speak clearly because an upper bicuspid had escaped during family Christmas dinner, she was pleased that Gorilla Glue had worked, sticking the darned thing right back into place. On Boxing Day, she became quite upset when a second tooth attempted a getaway. It was then, at the moment of the second escape, that Elizabeth knew she needed to replace her dentures immediately.
Born in Holland as the Second World War ended, she was the sixth child in a family that, like thousands, had suffered hunger and poverty and all the horrors of war.
Elizabeth had dentures before her twenty-fifth birthday. Today she is a smiling, welleducated, retired senior who denies ever having had a problem with her false teeth – until now.
She and I have discussed many health issues during our friendship. I remember thinking of the annual cost of regular dental checkups as well as the time that could have been saved if I had dentures. As a nurse, it was so much easier to take a patient’s dentures to the sink and clean them thoroughly rather than causing discomfort as I attempted to jam my fist into a poor patient’s mouth to provide less than perfect oral care.
Immediately after I had responded to Elizabeth’s email I grabbed my electric toothbrush and had another go at my less than perfect choppers. It was as I flossed that I recalled my husband’s partial plate.
In a boxing ring at university, he had three upper incisors knocked out. He didn’t mention the oral plate or any discomfort with it, that I remember. I don’t know if I even was aware of it when we were dating. He wore the plate to work and for social occasions after our marriage but removed it as soon as he stepped in the door, often dropping it into his dress shirt pocket.
My hubby never once used the specially placed container beside his bathroom sink that was meant to cuddle his dental plate. Instead, he would drop the plate somewhere in the recreation/TV room, on the stereo, the arm of the sofa, on the floor, near the aquarium, frequently forgetting where he had left it. Many mornings he would angrily accuse the tiny metal mouthpiece of hiding on purpose.
One spring day he was enthusiastic about an important meeting he was to attend a few days later. He had a new suit he planned to christen. The day before his meeting a shipment of iris bulbs arrived from British Columbia. My hubby gobbled his dinner, grabbed the bulbs, hit the cabana for a pitchfork, and almost ran to the garden. When he returned to the house he removed his dress shirt and disappeared for an evening of TV.
The following morning, his anger awakened everyone. Drawers banged. Doors slammed. We covered our ears. I got out of bed and quietly suggested that he take a moment and try to remember what he had done and where he had been the previous evening. My suggestion was unwelcomed.
Time was passing and I knew that he was anxious to leave for work. His anger was unabated. I reminded him that he had planted the bulbs. His response was abusive. After another five minutes of his childish behaviour, I heard the back door open and, peeking from a bedroom window, saw him dip the pitchfork into the soil, bend down, then immediately stand, a small item in his left hand. He had planted his partial mouth plate.
There was never any mention of his inappropriate behavior, no apology to us, his family members. Years later though, we all remember the drama.
Bite on that!
By J Alexander