There is supposed to be something happening in the Senate judiciary Committee this morning. We will see about that, although fully ten cardboard placards were seated in their living occupied seats. It was different yesterday. I reserved my arguments to the festivities surrounding oral surgery in a town 40-odd miles down the road. Maybe there will be more in the last of the Presidential debates tonight, if I can stay awake to the nine PM start time. Considering the handful of pain killers next to the salt-wash on the table next to me, that could be a challenge.

No argument about that. So, forgive me if my narrative is slightly mis-jointed and subject to more than slight relief. I accepted the judgement of the professionals involved. Between the Surgeon and the dentist, the team in the operating theater brought nearly a half century of military dental care to the regimen of intrusive operations.

As our staff Molar Grabber at 3rd Fleet wisely used to say, “Dental readiness is combat readiness.”

I agreed with him then, and agree with him this morning, the first day of recovery now fully underway back up at the farm. I will strive for a simple accounting of the procedure, serene in the careful modulation of affirmative personal action and enthusiastic team performance.

This particular story started a while back, and is only the case of my former uppers. I will keep it to the facts, insofar as I remember them. Key chunks in the recovery process involved slow incremental interaction with skilled professionals. The first in line was vision, since my old glasses had been jammed upright into the center of my brow. The nose attempted to run interference, which was only partially successful. In order to read, a trip to our discount optometrist was a first step. That involved the muttered word “cataracts” from the eye doc, and a recommendation to see the local specialist.

I wondered a bit at whether this was a cozy alliance of medical and commercial practices, but the muttered word helped raise my anxiety allocation. Another week or two of waiting allowed me to concentrate on other threats, but actually convinced me of the integrity of the system. The real eye doc did his bright lights and magic thing. Putting down his instruments, he grunted and said. “Yep. Cataracts. Normal in a Coot of your age. I recommend you see me next year. If you go blind before that, give me a call.”

Whew. No argument there, oral or otherwise. A good guy- and another survivor of military medical care.

There was more oral discussion, of course, and other professionals who wished to poke me. All seemed mildly surprised at my robust health despite impact damage and a mildly surly attitude. Which after physical therapy, hours of successful aquatic free swimming and walking on the immersion circuit, we were left with the busted teeth.

If this survivor can pass along a few health tips, they might include the words: “Brush.” Then “Avoid face first falls.” “Hand me that credit card. What was your credit limit again?”

I have to thank Mom and Dad for financing my mouth. There was the usual tugging and pulling that went along with the approach to puberty, and then the sad admonition that I should see Dr. B for the application of braces and preparatory removal of extraneous teeth.

There is a bit more to it all, of course, like removal of wisdom teeth on two continents and one large Pacific island. Not to mention Dr. B’s conviction for multiple murder, which is another story that thankfully followed my course of treatment and provided the Michigan Home for the Criminal Insane the finest orthodontic care anywhere. But I have convinced myself that experience did not presage the ultimate course of treatment. I hope.

Refuge Farm has been a place that strives to be exactly that. The constant shifting of dentists over 28 years of occasional military interaction, never seeing the same professional twice in a row. That changed in retirement, and dozens of visits with a new team seemed to grind, veneer and yank over the disparate approaches to my oral wellness.

The fall required a new country team, since my veneers had assumed a somewhat distant relationship between my mouth and the hardwood floor. You know the hunt for professionals. Internet and place first. Then getting appointment in a time of plague, which apparently had some folks deferring open mouth treatment to whatever virus is flying around. Apparently there has been something like that happening this year.

My confidence rose as he described his experience as a caregiver in the Air Force. We bemoaned the difficulties of securing dental material to the mouths of fighter pilots and nuclear delivery personnel and got to it. It was slick and professional, as I have always found our Air Force to be.

The diagnosis was stark. “Phase one would be stabilization, then some select removal.”

“That would involve multiple visits and many attempts, right?”

He nodded as he removed one mask to put on another. “There is another course of action you might wish to contemplate.”

“Pull ‘em all and screw in some dentures, right?” He nodded again.

I nodded when I saw the estimate for both, the first uncertain and the second uncertain and expensive. Like essentially the cost of a new car or a down-payment larger than what I put down on the farm.

As much time as I have spent in them, I decided on the latter. It involved a trip to a surgical facility down the highway, and that involved a night at a modest hotel. And some other incidental expenses which resulted in the closest approach to an oral argument this required. But not a bad one. If you are ever offered the stark choice, do not include fear. The team was great, the drive not bad, and aside from frequent unknown machinations of the bathroom equipment and the hard hustle of traffic in the darkness not unpleasant.

The last few times I have been under the knife, I carefully read the assurance at the bottom of the required form that there was a slight chance of mortality. I thought about that once fully prone in the chair there in central Virginia. Then I nodded and they turned something on the little tube that ran into my right arm. I had to confess I liked the warning higher up on the release form.

“Brush. Avoid Falls.”

Copyright 2020 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com