The Oral Dude

We, and when I say we I mean Marty, started the process of implants a couple of weeks ago.  And, when I say implants I don’t mean the soft squishy silicon kind, I mean the dental kind.

We have had a good run of health lately and it is past time to revisit the dental issue Marty has experienced most of her life.  I don’t like dental stuff, the very thought of it gives me the heebie jeebies, and when I say heeby jeeby I mean massive, light headed, creeps.

I’m not sure why I have such an aversion to the tooth and gum, but I do.  I have sat beside Marty and held her hand in a lot of medical situations in the past years but when it comes to removing teeth, I have to excuse myself lest the dental hygienist has to break out the smelling salts and that looks bad for an old man.

We have been mulling this whole ordeal for about two years.  We first visited the implant guy some many months ago and Marty said nope, nada and I just didn’t have the conviction to put her and our bank account through that assault on her mouth.  

Over the ensuing months Marty lost more teeth and more were becoming less viable.  Even Marty agreed it was time to do something and implants seemed the best option for my bride.  Marty is a fidgeter with everything and I can’t imagine dentures would ever stay in her mouth….so implants were the best solution.

The implant thing is a multi-stage process.   You have to get molded for a temporary prosthesis you will wear for months, you get teeth extracted, titanium posts inserted into the bones in your mouth and then the temporary set of teeth fitted and screwed into your mouth.  Exciting huh?  

Getting the mold done was a big nothing.  The big stage, removing teeth and screwing metal into her gums took about five hour.  Marty was not sedated except the Xanax I gave her a couple of hours before she hit the chair.  

I moved Marty into the chair and stayed until they brought the 21^st century torture devices and left poor Marty to the good graces of the nurses and the oral dude.  I’m told they numbed her mouth really well and she sat there with people pulling teeth, cutting her gums, hammering and screwing posts in her for five hours.  In case it’s not clear, my wife is one tough chick.

All went as planned and we got Marty home about 4:30 and of course took her to bed, got her some ice packs, some pain meds and soup.  I’m a firm believer in pain meds, reasonably used, and they make Marty real sleepy which is clearly the way to do oral surgery.  Sleep through the recovery to the extent that you can.

The next day my bride was bruised and swollen, she looked like she had been through a street fight and lost.  We went to the dentist for them to check the temporary teeth they had screwed into her upper gums and all was good.  Marty, for her part, due to the pain meds was way high by this time.  

All was fine.  Marty’s pain was manageable, she was more than a little high from the meds (she’s a cheap drunk anymore), and the temporary teeth were doing fine.  Marty was bruised, battered and drugged, other than that, peachy keen.

The bruising got worse, the pain got better, and slowly, as the bruising turned from purple to yellow and moved around her mouth and to her left eye, the eating got better and she could have something besides soup.

Today, the yellow marks on her face are gone, the teeth look dandy and eating is just fine as long as we stay away from really chewy hard foods which we would do anyway.  We went back to the oral surgeon, he checked and she is doing well.  The oral dude recommended we start using a water pick, which should be a huge mess every time we use it, but okay, we shall do that too.

Every time we go through one of these “procedures” I am reminded of how far we have come in Marty’s recovery and what a tough, resilient person my bride is.  Do what she had done to me and I’m out for a month.  

Not Marty, she just deals with each and every new assault to her body and she quietly and simply does the next thing.  She doesn’t complain, she doesn’t moan, she doesn’t pitch or make life hard for those who care for her the most and want to help her.  

She is one tough mama and now she has a really cool set of temporary teeth just waiting for the new ones like an impending Christmas present. 

 

God gave me the right woman.

This is Way Too Much Information

The saying goes something like this, “everyone has one, an opinion and a hole in their butt.” Women have them, men have them, children have them, and even senior citizens have them. We need them, we have doctors especially for them, we laugh about them, and Marty finds amazing humor in talking about them, the hole in our arse.

For the last week Marty has been laughing at me because of the hole in my posterior. You are about to get entirely too much information and this is way too long, I know that, but what follows is a big event in my life and for reasons that will become painfully apparent I have learned an entirely new way for my body to say, “hey, wake up I’ve got a surprise for you."

About a week ago I began to feel a bit of pain “down there.” It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t something new and I did all of the requisite pain “down there” kind of remedies. I complained to Marty, told her I had pain in the hole of the butt and she said, “I’m sorry” and then laughed as I rose gingerly from her bed and waddled down the hall. At least I was providing some comic relief for my bride.

The pain steadily increased. I didn’t sleep well that night, the ibuprofen was providing no relief and I found it amazing how often one uses the internal muscles of the butt to sit up, to get up or roll over. Every time I moved it hurt.

I had planned to tough it out for the week to see if the home remedies for hole in the bottom pain would finally take hold. By the morning I had given up on being tough and called my doctor and managed to get in to see him that morning. I told the good doctor of my pain and for my troubles I got to assume the position, elbows on the table, pants down around the ankles. I told the good doc what I was experiencing and he looked a bit concerned and said it didn’t sound like typical pain “down there” kind of stuff. He performed the requisite exam (I know, ewww), asked about fever, gave me a couple of scrips and said call back in two days if I didn’t have marked improvement.

I did not find any relief over the two ensuing days. I waddled as I walked, Marty laughed as I waddled and I could only find comfort in my bed on my side. I went back to the doctor as instructed, it was a Friday.

He looked at me and said, “You know, people are going to start talking about us if you have to keep coming in here for this exam.”

I said, “Yeah, we have a hell of a relationship going, I just can’t look you in the eye anymore, but then I guess that’s not what you’re looking at anyway. Maybe you should read some poetry, or something like that.”

We went back to our uncomfortable, but now familiar positions and he did his job and I winced with pain. He said let’s see a surgeon today. In 15 minutes I had an appointment to see a colorectal surgeon that afternoon.

Colorectal surgeons used to be called proctologists. The best advice for picking a proctologist, check out hand size and never go to one that can palm a basketball. I walked into this guy’s office and was immediately impressed with the size and appointments and thought there must be good money in hole in the butts.

I met the doctor, we talked, had a mini-date and he told me to remove my pants and cover up with a flimsy paper blanket. Here I got to lay on the exam table as he wheeled up his stool and put on his head lamp for a better view. I heard him snap on his rubber gloves and when I heard a “thrmmp” sound I said, “That wasn’t me” trying to introduce a little fart humor into a really uncomfortable situation. “No, I know,” he said, “it was my KY jelly.” I’m thinking we’re having fun now. I’m just hoping I really don’t have an attack of flatulence as he peers intently at my tookus.

Dr. Procto (an alias) says I think you have what is called a perianal abscess. Go ahead, look it up, find pictures, it’s impressive. He says it needs to be fixed by draining it and he can do it in his office right now but it would hurt a little bit, just a little bit, but draining the abscess would provide immediate relief. I figured the pain couldn’t be much worse so I breezily said, “Give me a bullet to bite on and bring it on.” My bravado did not last long.

A really cute 30’ish woman who I had already met came in to assist. I’m thinking, can this get any more humiliating. My ass is bare, there are bright lights on it and two people are getting all kinds of sterile (I hope) metal instruments ready for an introduction to the most delicate part of my posterior.

What follows next can only be described as, well, really, really painful. The doctor said I’m going to give you a couple of doses of pain meds and then drain the abscess. His assistant, the really cute and I’m sure competent medical assistant that I will never be able to look in the eye again, grabs my right cheek (not the cheek on my face) and pulls up while the doctor jabs me several times in a very private area with needles meant to alleviate pain. The pain the needles created was a lot worse than hurting just “a little bit.”

I have to say I don’t know exactly what was going on back there, it’s not like a bordello with mirrors; I can only go by what I felt and I felt pierced, sliced and squeezed. I have been through some painful stuff, I have had broken bones, but I have never cried out in pain. At some point in time I was clambering in bare air for something to grip, gritting my teeth and trying really hard not to kick and I finally just hollered, “Ooooh, that’s more than a little pain.”

“Almost done,” Dr. Procto said as he pushed just a couple of more times. “You will be happy to know my diagnosis was correct and the abscess is now clear.” Tears are running down my face onto the exam table and I think, “Was there a doubt?”

The doctor starts putting gauze up my heinie to tamp the flow of goo and blood from the 2nd hole in my butt and suggested I go buy some panty shields. I can’t resist, “So to top off this painful and extremely humiliating experience I now have to wear feminine hygiene products? What a great day.”

It took me a minute to get up which was good because I couldn’t look the doctor or his assistant in the eye. I sat up, no pain; I stood up, no pants yet, but no pain. I got dressed, set up a follow-up appointment and had no pain. It was a relief to be able walk without hurting. I took a tentative cough, it was okay, but I didn’t want to push it too hard. It seemed the assault had reaped great rewards.

Now I know this is way too long, I know this is way too personal but I write this to make my wife laugh and to say those of us with hole in the rear issues require a support group, I’m thinking NAHIB, National Association of Hole in the Butt Issues. Or, maybe just PIA, because that’s really what it is all about, a pain in the ass.