I can’t help playing with the polypropylene thread with my tongue. The ends of it are sticking out from under the twenty-five year old dental bridge in my mouth.
The thread connects a series of stitches holding together a small lump of donated gum tissue, inserted yesterday to shore up an area in my mouth which, by virtue of my obsessive, passionate tooth brushing, had worn away almost to the bone. A gum graft.
I had a choice between using my own tissue, taken from the roof of my mouth, or using “donated” tissue. The oral surgeon explained to me that using the donated tissue is better in almost every way, including the fact that I would end up with one incision instead of two, and eating again would be more comfortable more quickly since there wouldn’t be stitches on the roof of my mouth. The only downside was what he referred to as the “creep me out” factor.
I asked him, “Are you talking about the unattractive possibility that I might be walking around with gum tissue from a serial killer or worse?”
“Yep. That’s the “creep me out” factor.
Whatever, it’s done. My jaw is bruised, swollen and u-g-l-y. If I start writing about picking the caterpillars off the parsley, torturing them, then putting them in our chicken soup. . . well, draw your own conclusions.