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Friday, October 21, 2016

Adventures with Dentures

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My husband, Scotto, has a very dear, lifelong friend who has lost quite a few top, front teeth and was forced to get a partial denture. One day when this friend was perched on the loo, sans denture, he witnessed in a certain measure of alarm, his ill-disciplined dog hurtling past the loo door mischievously.

The dog was merrily sporting our friend’s expensive denture with bucktoothed pride and looking like he could eat a chew treat through a tennis racket.

Naturally, the exorbitantly priced denture was uselessly mangled after being worn by the recalcitrant mutt and at last report, still needs to be replaced.

So when my front tooth was callously ripped from my upper jaw last week and temporarily replaced with a partial denture, our friend’s naughty, thieving dog was the one image running through my mind.

In fact one of the warnings that come with a denture is, “Keep denture well away from dogs.”

Who’d have guessed that one?

Three seconds after the dentist had wrenched my tooth from its pitiful socket, he then proceeded to cram an acrylic denture the size of a dinner plate in and up against my hard palate.

To say it felt like an invasion of my cranial space at an extinction level event is an understatement.

I drove home feeling as though driving off the cliff and plunging down the mountain in a fiery fireball might be a better alternative than living with Martha Stewart’s Tupperware collection in my mouth.

When I finally walked through the front door and tried to talk I could hear my voice echoing in my head like I was standing at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and I had no control of my tongue whatsoever.

“You just have to get used to it,” sympathised Scotto. “Give it time, little toothless Pinky.”

“Thuck woo!” I screeched, stomping into the bedroom. “It’th alrighth for thum people!”

I sat in the bedroom petulantly singing the ABC Sesame Street song for an hour attempting to accustom my tongue to its new surroundings and eventually emerged sulking and sat in the lounge room slurping on a cuppa soup.

It’s been a week since then and I can happily say that I still want to kill myself.

I can’t swallow properly.

I can’t talk intelligibly for the first two hours after I wake up

… and when I eat, I dribble like a centenarian.

But at least I can smile with confidence… I thuppothe.

I don’t know how our grandparents survived with full dentures.

The moral of the story is; dogs are ashmoles and can’t be trusted and also you might want to look after your gums.

Any experiences with strange objects in your mouth?

(No rude comments, thanks).