My Tooth Hurts. It Means An Ethical Decision. Ask Mom.

My ancestry nearly got me two years ago. It was too much cholesterol, from my Polish grandmother's side, which nearly did me in. I caught it literally just in time, and got a triple by-pass.

If that were only it. I have my late Uncle Jim's eyebrows and my Dad's big feet (13!) his receding hairline, and bad teeth. It's the latter that's got me now.

I have another sore tooth. You find these things out when you brush them and they bleed rather vociferously. It means, usually, either of two things: a root canal, or a pulling.

But what it actually means is a trip to the dentist.

Of course, this wouldn't matter one way or another in normal times. But here I sit with a heart condition, at 68 years old, a perfect prototype for transmission of the coronavirus if I'm not careful.

So hey, I've been careful. I've pretty much sequestered myself. I have a whole big bunch of books that I could read and re-read. I make a good chili, and with the bucket I have, it's at least four or five days before I have to make another one, despite my big appetite and penchant for making things that taste good. Loneliness aside (which will become a bigger deal as we all go, of course), I'm taking on the virus as best I can.

Under these circumstances, the virus is going to have to work to find me. Yes, I go to the store. Yes, I wear surgical gloves. Yes, I pick up prescriptions for my heart condition. Yes, I keep my distance from people, and if I don't, I walk right past them without stopping, aisles being too jammed to provide the six feet of space recommended.

I even have the mail held until each Friday, and leave it lie on the floor for 48 hours. I also order the Sunday New York Times, which I treat similarly, so I don't look at it until Tuesday.

I snuck out yesterday and went to a Starbucks. Stir crazy, I waited in line at the wheel 20 minutes, at least. Plenty of others had the same idea. Did I make a mistake? Who knows?

And, with the delivery yesterday, two masks, courtesy of my brother and sister-in-law (shout-out!), arrived. Whatever I have to do to keep them in decent shape, I will.

So I've cut down my chances. I'm not Han Solo: Don't tell me the odds. No, tell me the odds, so I'm ready. My dentist is in Ozaukee County, for instance, just north of Milwaukee County, where there's been a whole lot more cases. Those odds help.

But my tooth hurts some. It hurt a lot Friday, and it felt like it was going to start throbbing. If you have had a tooth throb, there's little pain like it. You have to get help. Now.

So I called my dentist, expecting a recorded message. I got the desk instead. She sounded perfectly calm. Yes, we have an opening on Monday morning, but you can't come in now because we're about to leave (this was Friday about noon). In the meantime, she said, if you feel pain, get a teabag and bite down on it. It really helps.

I had never heard of that, but if it starts to throb, you can bet I will. It's Sunday now, and I have a little less than 24 hours before I go. Or, don't. I can call back tomorrow and cancel, I suppose, and hope to ride this out.

But I know that the root has died. That's the bleeding. That's the indicator. Usually, infection then sets in. It isn't long, and it really, really hurts.

Am I committing suicide in what might be the worst possible way? I don't have the virus. Dentists wear masks, and I have no doubt they'll keep doing so. But my mouth has to be open for a long, long time to fix the problem. If someone in that office is asymmetrical, I'm a dead duck. I'll get a dose that's good and strong.

I brushed today, expecting more bleeding. Didn't get any. It has stopped.

Does that mean the nerve is dead? Or that the gum is healing? I flossed yesterday; the gap between teeth is small up there. The floss stuck so I had to yank on it. Blood came out onto the book I was reading. It'll be a nice memory.

If I have a memory. That means that I'll live long enough to remember this time.

This isn't whimsical. This is real. The stats I've seen indicate that Wisconsin won't reach its peak infection until about May 22. That seems to be a good sign that if I go take care of this now, my chances for survival seem better.

But the bottom line is that everything depends on what happens inside that office, while I'm in that chair. That's where it's 100% safe, or 100% not. And with the paucity of testing, there's no way to know that, unless the dentist has been tested. I don't know that.

There's no absolute way to know, once I get in that chair, that I'm safe, if he hasn't. I have to take that chance.

It's quite a chance, when you come right down to it. Getting coronavirus might mean dying. And, by all accounts, it's a terrible death: Asphyxiation, slowly, and alone. None of my relatives could see me. Someone dressed like an alien might be there to hold my hand as I leave this earth. That's about it.

So do I go? Or do I ask for antibiotics and take my chances of an infection? I can't do nothing. I already know this is trouble.

The 45 administration says that the next two weeks will be awful, that the virus will spread tremendously. That worries me, too. But for me, nothing else will matter besides what is decided at 9 a.m. Monday morning. At least, as far as that goes.

I'm going to go and explain myself. I'll let them help me make the final decision. Then we'll go with that. It's about all I can do.

I didn't know what else to do, so I did what a red-blooded American boy would do: I asked Mom. That she's 95 has nothing to do with it. She still thinks steady, like she always has.

"I'd go," she said. "You need to have it looked at."

That's that, then. Mom said. She said. Am I protected? Maybe because Moms have a way to protect their sons. Besides, Dad (age 93) said it was a good idea, too.

What the hell. I'll walk in with some kind of faith. Nothing else to do.

This is awful. It will end at some point. That's what they're saying, anyhow. Maybe I'll be around to see it.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.


Mister Mark