Don’t neglect your dental hygiene, kids.
I wish I’d taken that advice when I was young. Growing up, I lived on soda and snacks. I guess a lot of kids did, but I’d go through a twelve pack of Coke in a single day sometimes. My parents tried their best to sway me in the right direction, but you know how kids can be with their sweets. So naturally I ended up with cavities. Awesome.
So I went to the dentist, as one does in such a situation. They did some drilling and filling, the whole nine yards, and sent me on my way. Problem solved… for now.
Well, years later, I got new insurance and hit up a new dentist as a result. He discovered that at least two of the fillings his predecessor billed me for were bogus. There was no evidence of decay there at all. They were just taking advantage of a kid with a sweet tooth to bilk some extra money out of the family. This led me to, as you can imagine, a deep mistrust of the dental profession outside of this doctor. So once the kindly old man who ran that office retired, I just … stopped going to dentists altogether.
I did not, however, stop drinking excessive amounts of soda. Eventually, that caught up with me. It was time to face up to years - actually, damn near a decade - of neglect. I found a new local dentist who had good reviews. I had to have several extractions, a handful of root canals, numerous fillings… it was painful and expensive and I hated my younger self with a burning passion.
But hey, my suffering was over. It’d just take some time for the gums to heal over, and I’d be all good. There was one sore spot in particular, where one of my back teeth had been badly infected and subsequently plucked out of its socket. But the dentist assured me that was normal and it would itch and ache for a bit then go back to normal as the socket healed over.
But the itching just kept getting more intense. It was unbearable. I couldn’t exactly scratch it. I applied layer after layer of Ora-Jel to numb the gum, but nothing worked. I was going mad. I had begun drinking heavily just to dull the agony, which was something I swore I’d never do after what happened to my uncle … but I didn’t know where else to turn but to the bottle.
And then one morning, I awoke from yet another drunken stupor to the unmistakable taste of copper, blood pouring from my mouth. “The fug-“
The itchy socket had burst open. I ran my thumb along my gumline, and sure enough… wait, what the hell?
I felt a tooth crowning out of the stitches. What? I’m 34. I lost my baby teeth decades ago. But between the pain and the vodka, I couldn’t really process what was happening. I just haphazardly wiped up the blood, downed a few more Tylenol and went back to bed.
So, here’s the fun part. I was traveling for work that day, so I was nowhere near the only dentist I trusted. But this was bad. I needed to be seen immediately. I googled around a bit, found one that didn’t look too terrible in the Tucson area, and popped by for an emergency visit. I waited a bit, clutching my jaw in pain, and was eventually taken back for an X-ray. They found that, impossibly, my decaying, cracked molar was patiently awaiting extraction.
“I - I just had that removed last week,” I uttered in confusion.
Smelling the alcohol on my breath, the X-ray tech shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Harvey. I can see you’ve had extensive work done, so you’re probably just confused, but you can clearly see the tooth right here on this printout.”
“That’s impossible.”
“And yet, there it is. You’re gonna want that bad boy out before the infection gets worse. I have an opening this afternoon -“
“Piss off.” He was scamming me just like that first dentist, I was sure of it. I’d pop some more pills for the duration of my trip, and wait until I got home to see my usual dentist.
He stopped me with a firm yet gentle hand on my shoulder. He calmly explained that if I didn’t get the tooth removed, the infection could spread and cause a litany of other health issues up to and including death. He procured a few mirrors to show me the physical tooth and demonstrate that there was no trickery in the X-ray.
Fine. Insurance wouldn’t cover it, but it hurt like hell and I didn’t want to risk it spreading. Maybe I really was mixing it up with a different tooth I’d had removed. Dr. W had removed five teeth total, and I had been drinking a lot … I guess it’s not out of the question.
Except a few days after my recovery, I felt that same itching sensation again. And this time, I felt it in one of the other empty sockets as well.
And this time, they were … pulsing.
I clenched my teeth reflexively, which was a mistake. I felt my upper tooth dig into the lower one as my jaw tightened. It … squished in, and then made an audible pop.
I gagged as my mouth was flooded with an earthy-tasting goop. I spat it out in surprise, costing my keyboard in thick, greenish sap. What the hell? And are those … seeds suspended in the liquid?
I grasped my jaw in pain and confusion. I could feel the roots of my tooth writhing and squirming in my gums. The now familiar taste of blood mingled with the sap, forming an absolutely disgusting frothing solution in flavor, texture, and appearance.
Beneath it all, I felt the next “tooth” emerging from its post-surgical socket. I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash as best I could, and gently prodded it with a Q-tip. Sure enough, this one was hard to the touch, but I felt something “give” underneath the enamel coating.
At this point, panic had set in and completely sobered me up. I felt the sap-filled pustules growing underneath enamel shells throughout my mouth. I screamed. I vomited. I passed out.
I don’t really know what happened next. I woke up in a hospital-style bed at an unfamiliar dentist’s office. I hazily looked around, but didn’t see anyone. I flicked my tongue around my mouth. Maybe it was all a dream?
To my horror, I found a nearly completely empty gum line across my entire lower jaw, and a handful more were missing from the roof as well.
“Ah, good morning. You were in a pretty bad accident, I’d wager. Not sure what happened, but when your roommate brought you in there wasn’t much to work with. We saved what we could, but… well, I’m here to take a cast for partial dentures,” said the stern dentist presumably responsible for tearing out all of those god-knows-whats from my mouth.
I couldn’t say much in response, between the pain, the analgesics, and the swabs of cotton in my mouth. I just moaned a little. I had so many questions but couldn’t utter a word.
He took the cast, applying excruciatingly painful pressure to the afflicted sockets with his mold. “I’m so sorry,” he added as he left, almost as an afterthought. He noted that they’d call in a few weeks once the casting was completed, and to avoid chewing in the meantime. Sure. I’d definitely be chewing with the half-dozen teeth I have left if he hadn’t said that.
I went home and drank myself to sleep yet again. I’d given up hope. Honestly, I was about ready to take my own life.
Then I woke up with a full mouth of teeth again.
I’m afraid to chew on them. I can feel the roots squirming and growing beneath the hard shell. I don’t know where these things came from or why. I don’t know if they’re dangerous. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s worse to pop them open or let them fester.
But I feel the roots burrowing deeper and deeper into my skull in the meantime, and one question dominates my mind now.
What happens if they reach my brain?