Filling In the Shadows
Why is it that what we most want lies beyond our reach, like shadows on a cave wall? And why is our obsession even greater for the things we once called ours, and now are gone, like that pair of stiletto heels, engine-red, worn out from igniting too many fires, or the antique wedding band lost at Rehoboth Beach, long before the divorce?
Perhaps Aristophanes’ myth in Plato’s Symposium is really true — that long ago we were male, female, and androgynous, descended from the sun, the earth, and the moon, respectively, possessing double pairs of hands and legs, even heads, which allowed us to spin and cartwheel about. The gods felt threatened by us, and our punishment was to be sliced in two. Humans being humans, we yearned for our missing halves, driven to become whole again. How else to explain that I’m inexplicably drawn to blond men with blue eyes? Living at home I had a predilection for my “type,” but wasn’t able to act on it, since I was only allowed to date Jewish boys — a minuscule overlap of circles among “Jewish,” “blond,” and “blue-eyed” on a Venn diagram. My high school crush fit the mold, and my first husband was blond and blue-eyed, even though he wasn’t a Jew. Three husbands later, I’ve ditched the attraction to blond hair, as men my age have grayed, but I still find blue eyes particularly appealing.
Aristophanes’ myth may also apply to our obsession with facial scrubs, loofah sponges, and glycolic acid peels, as we go to great lengths to reclaim our youthful looks — archetypal beauty, perhaps, another missing self. We pluck out each gray hair until we can’t, then dye our hair with semi-permanent color until that no longer works and we reach for the permanent color kit. In the early days of the virus, I found it difficult to choose between risking contagion at the salon or CVS in the Clairol aisle, or ordering a box of purple rinse I ended up never using, scared off by a niece’s warning that it could permanently leave a grape-colored stain on my hands. I even braved injections in the face to defeat a particularly annoying crease on the left side of my mouth, convincing myself that since hyaluronic acid was a naturally occurring substance produced by the body, it didn’t count as having had “work” done, as I was merely restoring something I’d lost.
Perhaps our unconscious need to reclaim our identity — our sense of self — explains why we go to great lengths to replace the body’s lost accessories — the ones we can live without but often define us in others’ eyes. Vanity was not the least of my motivations for wanting my hair back after four rounds of chemotherapy for early stage breast cancer, and fortunately my curls returned, despite the horror stories I’d heard about women left with permanent patches of post-treatment baldness. Had that been the case for me, I’m not so sure I would have endured injections to the scalp to encourage hair growth, though if I’d lost my breast, I’m guessing I would have opted for reconstructive surgery. We don’t really know how far we’ll go to feel intact until we’re in a situation where we have to make such decisions.
Which brings me to today’s sinus graft and implant in the space where tooth #14 used to be — on the upper left side of my mouth near the back. The procedure itself was anxiety-provoking, but oral surgery during a recent surge in COVID-19 numbers made it especially frightening. However, it wasn’t as terrifying as my first foray into the outside world a few months into the pandemic, when I donned a mask and plastic gloves, cleared the cobwebs hanging from my sideview mirror, and drove to Sibley Hospital’s Sullivan Breast Center for my annual mammogram. I didn’t breathe more easily under my mask until I got the official “all clear” report from the radiologist.
My relationship with #14 had been difficult. On Christmas Eve, 2011 I underwent my first root canal. Humming along to Italian arias pouring through speakers, my family dentist drilled, filled, and prodded my tooth (does this hurt?) searching for additional canals like one would look for dropped gondola oars floating in dark Venetian waters. Three hours later I was released, in time to board a plane to Athens for a family vacation. I still remember the deep ache that filled my jaw upon takeoff and landing. Fast forward to the summer of 2015, six months after my cancer treatment had ended. The root canal needed attention: the infection, probably due to chemotherapy-induced low white blood cell counts, had to be cleaned and retreated. There was no reward of travel associated with this second root canal.
Years later, with no warning (just like the cancer diagnosis), #14 was officially declared dead, which lead to an extraction and bone graft. Initially I had put off this procedure, needing to warm up to the idea of cadaver bone being placed into my jaw, but after weighing the alternative (no implant), I went ahead with the surgery, followed by a week of arnica, antibiotics, and Advil, before a family vacation to Marrakech.
The decision to move forward with today’s procedure also had involved the weighing of options: the fear of coronavirus vs. the fear of implant failure from having waited too long between the two steps. The fear of coronavirus vs. all that money spent on the first step getting sucked down the dentist’s saliva ejector. The fear of periodontists wielding sickle probes and needles vs. the fear of implant failure and financial distress. I’m no fan of injections into the gumline — I hold my breath and clench my hands every time, and then have a greater fear that the anesthetic won’t work — but they pale in comparison to the worst injection I ever experienced: the one used to numb the nipple of my breast, in order to perform a sentinel node biopsy. In the end, I decided to go through with the implant.
It’s now almost thirty-six hours later. As I sit at the computer writing this essay, the left side of my face hurts if I try to smile, as the latest dose of ibuprofen has worn off. Thanks to the arnica, I see no bruising on my face. Because hard, crunchy, or chewy foods are off-limits, I have been subsisting on egg custards and non-dairy smoothies. No jumping on my mini-trampoline until Tuesday, and only if my jaw doesn’t ache. No hot foods or drinks. Most importantly, no sneezing for two weeks. They even showed me how to stop a sneeze in its tracks by pressing firmly on the tip of my nose.
They say it will take three to four months for my jawbone to fuse with the titanium post — a process called “osseointegration” — before I’ll need to return for the third step. What if my body rejects the titanium? I tell myself to stop fixating on that possibility, though that’s all I can think about, other than sneezing.