Bad Advice

¡Hola!

Behold a fairly gross photo of me taken right before bed the night after my latest hideous dental surgery. In order for the twenty or so stitches to heal over the three screws and bone graft that were just implanted, I need to remove my removable front teeth (aka, temporary denture) before bed each night. I don't have to wear the mask, but I refuse to look at my gums, which are all stitched up and have a titanium bolt sticking out of the bottom. Ugh. Once that image is in my head, I know it will never leave. I can live without it.

The cancer surgery I had was absolutely nothing on the pain scale next to the carvings I've had done in my mouth. Luckily, when you get cancer (even if it's a wussy stage-one melanoma), they give you these incredibly strong painkillers. I used about two pills after my surgery and hoarded the rest for just this kind of occasion. I spent three hours in the chair with the dentist drilling into my head. She'd be deep into my upper jaw and the novocaine would run out. Seriously—this happened about three times. I'd start to yell and once I actually hyperventilated like a lunatic. The pain was unbelievable. Also, injections into your palate do not "feel like a pinch," they feel like a spike being jammed up into your brain. As I was leaving the office, face swollen and blood crusted around my lips, the dentist offered me a Motrin. 

That shit doesn't even work on period cramps.

Anyway, enough complaining. I'm in the midst of yet another health scare, which will hopefully turn out to be nothing, but I won't know for a few days. (It's probably nothing.) I'm so sick and tired of feeling like shit and having absolutely nothing to say unless it's to bitch about my stupid health. Do you want to hear about my bowels? (Kidding—my poop appears to be in great shape!) I'm writing a bunch, which is great, but I feel like the worst friend/family member/freelancer on the planet because I've been such a miserable bee-yotch this past year. So, sorry, you guys. I'll try to do better.

I am a desperate woman.

As I've yammered on about extensively, my teeth—what remain of them—are in horrible shape. I'm currently grinding through the implant process on the top of my mouth. It's gross, humiliating, and the less said, the better.

Because I'm always on the lookout for new remedies, I decided to start this ayurvedic practice called "oil pulling." There are a bunch of websites about it, claiming it can cure everything from gum disease to cancer to AIDS, but the most believable arguments were about its effects on gum disease.

So now every morning upon waking, I brush my teeth and then swish a tablespoon of sesame oil around in my mouth for 20 minutes. I hope I get used to it soon, because right now it just makes me queasy. I mean, oil, first thing in the morning? I'm not even going to tell my periodontist about it, but I'm seeing him in a month and we'll see if he sees any improvement. If he does, I'll tell him and keep doing it. If not, buh-bye early morning oil cocktail! (Not that you swallow the oil—you just swish and spit. Supposedly the oil turns toxic after a little while in your mouth.)

If anyone has any experience with this, please let me know if it worked for you.

Why, hello there. . . .

Before you read anything I have to say, you need to go watch this video on Four Four. Warning: It goes on autoplay, so if you aren't prepared to watch and hear the madness immediately, don't click the link. But please, as soon as you can, click it. That's some cracky madness for you! (Not the top thing—scroll down!)

I spent much of last week in a vicodin-induced haze. I had a big ugly dental surgery on Monday that involved ferrying myself back and forth between dentist and periodontist a couple times. Once with a bloody mouth and a bunch of missing front teeth. Pretty, right? I was being sawed and yanked and stitched and fitted for four hours. To the tune of $5500. And that's the cheap part of this whole debacle.

I'm not exactly vain, but this thing threw me. I basically holed up inside my house until Saturday night. For the first few nights, I wouldn't even sleep in the same bed as my boyfriend because I just felt so gross. Though my friends say the results of the surgery aren't noticeable, I'm still very self-conscious about it. I also have a brand new lisp, though I'm working on getting rid of that.

So I don't really have much of interest to share. I don't know about you, but when I'm on painkillers, I just kind of become a human "duh." I knew it was bad when I watched Dr. Phil two days in a row.

Oh, I don't know if I told you this, but I started a new blog called Judy Likey. It's just a bunch of things, people, colors, whatever, that I like(y). I thought it would lift my dismal mood a little and it has.

Rocky Road

 
I was going to lead off this entry with a long quote from Martin Amis's autobiography, Experience, but when I reorganized my bookshelves I stupidly put it up top, far out of reach. I was going to quote Amis not because I'm pretentious (though I definitely can be), but because he's the only person I know of who's gone through the same dental hell I'm about to embark upon.

Though Martin Amis and I have lousy mouths in common, that's about it. For one thing, he was able to finance his horrifying procedures with a 500k advance from The Information. Me, I'm liquidating my meager retirement account, maxing out credit cards, and buying Lotto tickets. (I'm not even kidding about the Lotto tickets—though I only buy one or two a week—gotta be in it to win it!) Incredibly, Amis was derided as a vain traitor by the British press when news of his surgeries came to light. So far the press—British or otherwise—hasn't had anything to say about my impending dental procedures. In fact, I think there's a good chance they're not even aware of my existence. (Note to tabloids: though my advance was approximately 1/1,000,000,000th of Amis's, I also wrote a book!)

To help you understand the extent of what I have to look forward to, here's a passage from Bill Peschel's blog entry about MA's mouth, aptly entitled, "The Mortification of Martin Amis":

Lost in all the back-biting headlines ("Martin Amis in Greed Storm") was that Amis wasn't just getting his teeth whitened or straightened, he was getting them ripped out. Heredity ("My mother had okay teeth and bad gums. My father had okay gums and bad teeth. I've got bad teeth and bad gums") combined with neglect had caused serious damage, necessitating a complete rebuild of his choppers. The experience, described in stomach-clenching detail in his memoirs, makes the torture Dustin Hoffman's character underwent in "The Boys From Brazil" look like a fluoride rinse.

Maybe it's a good thing I can't reach my copy of Experience because I've already read those pages about thirty times. Lucky for me, I don't need them all ripped out of my head, just a bunch from the front upper jaw (i.e., the most visible ones). I'm told the fake teeth they have today are not your granny's dentures, so maybe it won't look so bad. My gums will then be packed with bone grafts (had several of those already—not fun) and then implants will be put in. It's a long, excruciating, unbelievably expensive process.

I've been dealing with the lead-up to this for a few years now, but it's all coming to a head (ha!) in the next month. I can't sleep, nor can I think of much else. My poor boyfriend came home the other day while I was on the phone with my dentist, sobbing my face off. He was positive someone had died. Yeah, that was my dignity, along with my already anorexic financial situation and my sense of humor.

I felt vindicated to read that Peschel deemed Amis's experience mortifying, because the one thing that nobody around me seems to understand is how deeply humiliating this whole process is. I've had shitty teeth my entire life. My parents could only afford braces for one of us (there were five) and so they had to pick who had it worst. Back then, that wasn't me, but they've only gotten worse as I've aged. In a land where a gob full of shiny chiclets is the norm, I've got a mouthful of problems.

And I know you're probably thinking WAH! What a fucking baby. I get it. I've watched enough people I love (and loathe) battle scary, life-threatening illnesses to not be aware that in the grand scheme of things, getting my mouth reconstructed isn't that big a deal.

But right now, it really feels like it is.

My Freak Magnet = Still a Powerful Thing

Those of you who tune in regularly know that I am going through extreme dental hell. I categorize these teeth-oriented blog entries as "Me and Martin Amis," not because I'm a fabulously wealthy famous writer, but because he also had crappy teeth and went through pretty much the same thing that I'm going through. Except unlike me, Martin Amis had the means to pay for it.

As you might imagine, being stressed out 24/7 about not only my ever worsening dental problems, but also coming up with the incredible amount of money needed to pay for it, hasn't been so great for my mental state. So since I have medical insurance, I decided to bite the bullet and go see a psychiatrist. I already have an awesome therapist, but she agreed that I could probably use a little chemical helper to get me through this rather difficult period in my life.

So I went onto my insurance provider's website and got the list of approved psychiatrists. I left messages for between 10 and 15 different doctors. ONE guy bothered to return my call. Out of all those messages, only one person!!! And it's not even August!

He wasn't my first choice (I'd wanted a woman), but as nobody else could be bothered to return my call, I made an appointment. . . .

Curved roots?

As I've mentioned many, many times before, my mouth is seriously fucked. (Though that x-ray is not mine—it belongs to Queen Hatshepsut, who ruled Egypt around 3500 years ago.) This week I had to have two teeth pulled, which you'd think would be horror-show enough. But no. One of these teeth had curly roots, so instead of just yanking it out, my periodontist had to go a-digging up in my head.

It was not pleasant to say the least. Since he was up there anyway, he did a bone graft and I left the office 2.5 hours later feeling like someone had punched me in the face. He suggested I take some Advil when I got home. Yeah, right. I've been down that road before and had called in the big guns—my friend Vicodin. I'd had to bully my other dentist into prescribing them the week before (yes, I have two people working on my mouth) and was saving them for what I knew would be serious pain.

I do not understand doctors and their problem prescribing painkillers! I'm not going to become a drug addict off eight Vicodin tablets! I only took two and a half because I know I have more painful procedures coming up soon and I want to save them. Plus, I don't even like the way I feel on them. I just don't want to be in pain.

So between my mouth hurting and my brain being sad about the whole debacle I haven't been in a great mood and have only been writing stuff that people are paying me for. Here's my latest Seattle column and also my latest Frisky piece about being friend-dumped via Facebook. Ah, the indignity. It just keeps a-coming.

Holiday Hijinx

I couldn't locate the video for my favorite You Am I song, "Please Don't Ask Me to Smile," so this one will have to do. "Heavy Heart" is also an amazing song and the random Japanese subtitles are a bonus. It's just that PDAMTS is all about having bad teeth, which is one of the reasons I've been in such a mood lately.

I haven't been sleeping much, have no energy, no sense of humor . . . . this situation is kind of kicking my ass and I need to fix it. I forced myself to get up and out this morning and I'm going to go see Felicia Sullivan and Ms. Heather read stories about Brooklyn this evening at Matchless across the park. So it's not like I'm a shut-in. Just a bit of a whinger. (I'll never say "blimey," or insert the letter "u" where it doesn't belong, but I do prefer "whinge" to "whine.") 

I'm on the drugs.

Because of my horrible gums and teeth, my periodontist (that's a gum doctor for you people with non-diseased cakeholes) put me on this hardcore antibiotic called Flagyl. Most people take it for parasites or other nastiness. I'm taking it for my teeth. There's another pill that I take along with it, but Flagyl is the tough one. My doctor says most people don't tolerate it too well and he wondered if I'd last three days. I'm supposed to take it for seven.

One of Flagyl's quirks is that you pretty much die if you have a drop of alcohol with it. Not only could you projectile vomit, it also screws with your liver. (It used to be used like Antabuse.) So this will be a very dry week. It also turns your pee neon yellow and will reportedly give it a strange fun-kay smell. I've got the day-glo color, but so far I haven't noticed any funk.

It can make you confused (check!), listless (double-check!) and nauseous (triple-check!). The only good thing about it is that it's pretty much killed my appetite so maybe I'll drop a little chub.

I know I haven't been writing much lately and am not egomaniacal enough to think that anyone's noticed, but it's been a little rough around here. Between my mouth and other crap that I can't talk about and then Bob dying, I don't have the energy to write anything that I'm not being paid for. I barely have the brain function for the money-making stuff, what with the drugs mucking with my mind. Hopefully next week will be a bit more productive.

Pardon me while I feel massively sorry for myself.

It's only 11:10 on Monday morning and already my week is not off to a good start. It started yesterday when I began to not-so-silently flip out about this morning's periodontal visit. I lay in bed, eyes wide open, for a few hours, dropped off to sleep and then woke in a panic around 3AM.

When it was time to get up, I carefully scrubbed my teeth  and toddled off to see my gruff Israeli periodontist. He's very capable and seems like a nice guy, but I wish he were a little cuddlier. A little less of a hard-ass. My therapist once suggested I discuss my feelings of dread and terror with him, but believe me when I say that would only make our relationship way more uncomfortable than it has to be. The fact that I regularly burst into tears on the chair kind of makes my feelings clear anyway.

And you know how usually when you're worried about something, it turns out that the reality isn't nearly as bad as you thought it would be? Well, in this case, my worrying was completely warranted. And then some. Somehow I need to gather $20,000 in the very near future. And up my pain threshold while I'm at it.

I know it's not cancer or a brain tumor or even an amputated limb, but this is really fucking with my mood and my ability to write so I might not be as chatty as I normally am. That's all. Carry on. And if any of you have a spare 20k laying around, well, never mind.

Also, if you want a laugh, check out my pal Ivan's new blog here. Also, last week I was feeling funnier and so I wrote a piece about having sex with Rahm Emanuel. (Even though the reality would be way hotter than it would be funny.) And when I'm feeling sad, I always look at Elsa Mora's blog because she just seems like the sweetest, kindest, most positive person in the world. Plus, she's incredibly talented and her art makes me smile. 

Yuck.

I went in for a new set of x-rays today (those aren't mine). I got so freaked out beforehand that I sprouted a lovely new cold sore. I tried to photograph that for you, but you really can't get the full impact unless you see it in person.

On February 9th I go back and see my periodontist who will solemnly tell me how completely fucked my mouth is. He's told me before. Why is it that dental professionals always try to make you feel like shit about your condition? My gyno has never given me a complex about my lady parts. She's never questioned my pubic grooming or remarked on how long it had been since the last time I saw her. My GP suggests I eat better (which I am), but she doesn't make me feel like a piece of crap because I could lose a few pounds. Yet dentists and their ilk always give everyone (and I know this isn't just me) the stink eye. And I actually floss. I take better care of my teeth than most people, yet every time I see a new dentist I need to go through the drill and tell them that no, I'm not a junkie. Yes, I do actually brush my teeth and no, I've never had a methamphetamine habit. One look at my fat ass should show them that, but I always need to clarify.

I've had dentists make me get tested for HIV, ask if I was an alcoholic, quiz me on how many cigarettes I smoke a day (none!) and wonder aloud why I put off a crown or whatever. Um, because every time I see one of you people it costs a minimum of $500. Usually a whole lot more.

So right now I've got $3000 earmarked for my periodontist. This is but a drop in a very huge bucket and nowhere near enough. I need to make a lot more money this year and a little luck would help too. Here's hoping the Year of the Ox is kind to me and my mouth. And to you as well. Happy new year!