Goodbye to Molar #3

I left work in early afternoon, drove downtown, parked in a garage, and made my way to my dental surgeon's office on the 12th floor of a building at Post and Mason. The streets were crowded with tourists, office workers on lunch break, techies, and hustlers. The same two guys tried to hand me tickets to something or another four times as I struggled back and forth near them (more on this soon) but I waved them off.

The doctor was really nice. Her three assistants, all young Asian women, were very friendly and comforting. I was nervous and feared the procedure, partly because I have a very strong gag reflex that makes dental work always a challenge.

But my molar #3 was cracked and loose and I had an infection in the gum -- something that has been going on there for a long time now, probably two years.

After absorbing the anesthesia, I lay back and let them put sunglasses on me. I imagined that I was an aging rock star. The actual extraction took about half an hour. First they snared the crown, then most of the tooth, then for a long time, the residue of the roots and other stuff, including infected gum.

Yucky, I know.

I could feel everything and hear it, but there was no pain. I was losing a part of myself -- that made me feel sad. After all, molar #3 (or its baby tooth predecessor) had been with me all of my 69 years.

Still, at this point, it was good to have it gone.

I could have chosen a bone graft, which would eventually have led to an implant, but instead I chose to just leave a gap in my mouth. It is out of sight so who cares? I'll just keep chewing on the left side of my mouth, which has been the case for years now anyway.

I paid and left, then remembered I did not have the prescription for the antibiotic medication. So I went back. Then I remembered I did not get reimbursed for my parking ticket. The girls were not very good at math, but gave me about $6, by their calculation.

I again left (walking past the two hustlers for the fourth and fifth times) but went back because I had left the parking ticket behind.

Finally I passed the hustlers for the sixth and final time, made my way to the garage, paid off my fee ($12), drove back to the Mission, stopped at the pharmacy to get my medicine, drove home, parked across the street, and entered my home.

Exhausting. This is what it like to become aged in the city. Yet I felt good about the whole experience. I pulled it off!

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