I ain't afraid of no stinking gum graft

I have to have a gum graft. You have no idea how the prospect of this dandy little surgery thrills me.

If you’re wondering what exactly a gum graft is…well, my gums are receding, exposing the roots. A surgeon will take gum tissue from somewhere in my mouth and sew it over the exposed roots. And if I’m very lucky, it will take.

I had this done years and years ago. The memories of the discomfort have not faded. That one “took” minimally. But now I have to have it done on a different part of my mouth “before it’s too late to save the teeth,” according to my dentist.

I wore braces for four years and suffered through another six years of appliances. After all that, I’d do just about anything to save my teeth. But honestly, the decision—lose my teeth or get a gum graft—gave me pause. I had to think about it. THAT’S how bad this surgery is.

Of course, life has ways of putting things in perspective. In the midst of my whining and moaning about a little dental work, the car crash happened to my cousins. Suddenly a little pain in the mouth doesn’t seem quite so distressing.

I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the oral surgeon. Afterwards, I’m taking my mom into the hospital to visit Patty. (As far as I know, there hasn’t been any change in her condition). No matter what the surgeon tells me, it will pale in comparison to what she’s going through.

So I’ll suck it up and try not to be a baby about the whole thing.


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