Last month, after plenty of tossing and turning about my dental decisions—both voluntary and involuntary—I realized it was time to get dentures.
After five years of my fragile teeth being damaged by stroke-related complications—including impromptu seizures and the wear caused by oxygen tubes—I endured constant pain that left me consuming a bottle of Tylenol every three or four days.
With the horrid 2024 election, I am increasingly certain that my immediate medical care—particularly through the Indigenous healthcare system—will soon be gutted, and my insurance canceled. With that, I decided it was the right time to pray to God, prepare my mouth, and finally get my dentures.
Yes, I am strictly embarrassed…but, really, what can I do?
Appointment set, I arrived at Dental Depot—Oklahoma City’s train-centric dentist—in the late morning. The dentist’s assistant—a guy that I really came to appreciate during this process—set up with the dentist’s metallic tools, while the licensed anesthesiologist came for my remaining senses.
To be fair, this was the worst part of this operation. Many precise holes were punctured in my gums by the anesthesiologist, but it let the Novocain do its mind-numbing work. As my mouth became positively slippery, apparently I had an allergic reaction that gave me semi-laughable hallucinations.
The road to total numbness is paved with good intentions.
Drugged up good after a few additional shots, my dentist got to work. After a few scrapes on my enamel, the tooth doctor took his instrument of divine torture as the teeth started to pop out, one by one, with no pain and no fuss.
For many years, I always thought this would be the worst torture I could ever endure, but, you know, it was actually alright. The bloody refuse, on the other hand, was another tragic story…
Looking down at the tray and seeing my red-stained teeth individually, I became a little morose about the situation. Though it wasn’t about the procedure, per se, as much as I questioned why these things have happened to me over the past years and, even worse, what’s about to come.
After about six hours, I was toothless.
The old teeth were gone, without much fanfare. I was presented immediately with a new set of vibrant choppers that same day. With a gummy smile full of gauze, they were perfectly placed with a robotic charm and already I began to heal immediately.
With a few tweaks over the coming weeks, my new mouth will be more than ready. I had reconciled that this has become a new part of my body, but one that I can easily lose. That’s one more thing to take total care of, but at least there’s no more dental pain, which is the worst.
At least oral pain, that is.
Since my stroke, my speech has reasonably faltered and failed, but with the new dentures, it was…well, to be fair, even worse. It’s tired and haggard and most people look at me like I am speaking a foreign language, but, on the bright side, I don’t have to converse with most people.
Yes, it’s a bastardized life of near one-way communication, but, unexpectedly, I have written far more since getting them installed, even if it’s just about getting a new set of teeth.
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Follow Louis Fowler on Instagram at @louisfowler78.
