Awake and Asleep

Age 12 (1976)

My teeth are rotting out of my head. “Twenty-two cavities,” says the dentist sternly at my first visit ever. My mother, a non-believer in Western medicine, looks shocked. I say nothing but I give my mom a look that says, “Who’s the idiot who thought clove oil would fix cavities.”

Age 13 (1977)

I’ve been at the dentist’s office for hours. I can’t tolerate the pain of my throbbing tooth or the shock of a strange man reaching into my mouth with needles poised to shoot into my gums. Up, out of the chair I go but the petite hygienist leans on me with all her weight. Another escape attempt. The dentist slaps me hard across the face. I don’t remember anything after that.

Age 18 (1982)

My mother’s eyes are open. She stares at the ceiling in her bedroom. She cannot see, move or speak, blinded by cancer that began five years earlier in her breast, then attacked her spine, brain, and voice box. Her once dark brown skin is mottled, like gray mold, her afro is unkempt. Her teeth are gray, please don’t go, I pray. I am afraid to leave her side because she has refused medical care, insisting she does not believe in doctors. Along with holistic healers, my younger sister and I, together with our dad, are all she has. “It is your mother’s wish,” my dad tells us. I feel the urge to put my hands around his neck and squeeze with all my strength, until his eyes bulge. He leaves the room. I open my high school biology textbook to study for a test. The vena cava is a large vein that delivers de-oxygenated blood to the heart. When the blood stops flowing the heart ceases to pump.  Her heart, my heart, the heart.

Age 20 (1984)

I notice a bottom molar has a pus filled lesion on the side of my gum. It feels odd when my tongue touches it, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s perfectly round so I admire its shape. Dr. C. is young, probably just out of dental school. “An abscess,” he tells me. I’m in college and I can’t afford anesthesia. I don’t have insurance, so I negotiate a monthly payment plan. I’m awake when he pulls the tooth. I hear what sounds like bone crunching on bone as he wrangles the tooth out of my jaw. When I smile, my boyfriend reminds me I’m missing a tooth.

Age 43 (2007)

I’m a married mom of two young kids. We have dental insurance. After an appointment with a dentist who specializes in complicated cases, I get bad news. Big tears roll down the sides of my face, wet drops pelting my bare arms. The missing bottom tooth from 1984 must be replaced with a bridge. I also need a dental implant with a sinus lift, an extraction, several root canals and crown replacements. I don’t go back.

Age 44 (2008)

A friend recommends her dentist. Not just any dentist, he’s the cousin of Bob Dylan. Dr. G’s office is in a fancy part of Los Angeles. Bob Dylan memorabilia covers the walls. He’s a referral-only dentist who doesn’t accept insurance. I’ve never heard of this type of concierge practice, but my friend insists “he’s the best, worth every penny.” It turns out concierge medicine—no insurance accepted—will become a popular trend for the privileged few who can afford it. At this point in my life, I am able to pay for an almost complete makeover of my mouth. The pain will not be financial. It will be physical and emotional. I think of rappers like ASAP Rocky and Lil’ Wayne, whose grills dazzle their mouths with diamonds and gold, showpieces that are estimated to cost $150,000 each. My work will total about the same, only it will be invisible to everyone except me. Dr. G. offers me Valium. I take the tiny blue pill with water from a paper cup. Someone hands me headphones and I turn on Aretha Franklin. A warm, fuzzy blanket covers my legs. The staff hover around me as if I’m a celebrity. The anesthesiologist is ready. His price, $700.00, is separate. With the IV in my arm, I drift off to sleep, babbling that I miss my mama. Dr. G. gives me his cell phone in case I need to reach him.

On a Saturday morning a few months later, I text Dr. G. because my temporary crown has fallen off. He tells me to meet him at the office. He pulls up on a Harley, in a black leather jacket. In about five weeks, the permanent crown is ready and he cements it firmly in place.

Age 55 (2019)

I’ve outlived my mom by five years. My smile shows no longer shows gold, I have a hand to hold. My teeth are no longer rotting out of my head.

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Christina Simon is the nonfiction editor for Angels Flight Literary West. Her essays have appeared in Salon, Angels Flight Literary West, The Broken City, Proximity’s blog, True and Entropy. Christina received her B.A. from U.C. Berkeley and her M.A. from UCLA. She is a volunteer with 826LA where she helps kids write their college essays. Christina lives with her husband and two teenagers.