Patch, Patch, Patch . . .

Monday morning, as I was eating scrambled eggs -- scrambled eggs, for heavens sake! -- something went dreadfully wrong with one of my teeth -- it seemed to have exploded.  A look in the mirror confirmed my diagnosis -- one side of a lower molar had fallen away from the filling that was the main part of the tooth.

I'd just had my teeth cleaned the week before and  there'd been no untoward signs. But this couldn't be ignored. Fortunately there was a cancellation at the dentist's office and he was able to see me that day.

This is a new dentist who appears to be about 16 years old. Our old (younger than I) dentist retired recently, turning over his practice to this kid.

The kid was sympathetic and professional.  The tooth was past saving.  He numbed up my jaw and a few unpleasant (but not painful) minutes later, the tooth was out. I asked the kid to tell me what my options were, beginning with the cheapest.

The cheapest, at just under a thousand dollars, is a partial -- a removable false tooth. Next -- at just under three thousand, would be a false tooth held in place by two crowns -- which would involve putting crowns on the adjacent teeth . . . Then there's an implant . . .

We don't have dental insurance, alas.

"Stop there," I told the kid. "I believe the partial will suit me just fine."

I've heard it said that getting older is just one damn thing after another -- and I'm beginning to see the truth of it.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining. There are so many folks out there with real and chronic problems. I've had, and continue to have, good health. It's just that this piddly stuff keeps happening as the infrastructure deteriorates -- the ophthalmologist trying to talk me into bifocals and nattering on about cataracts, the hearing in my right ear becoming marginal (though if people would just quit mumbling...,) the sudden appearance of chin hairs (maybe if I had bifocals, I'd notice those hairs before they got so long.)

On the other hand, the knee replacement was a great success, so much so that I don't feel the need to do anything about the other one at this time.  My shoulder, that I was afraid would need surgery, is slowly improving thanks to physical therapy. . .  (though my friend Josie says she's saddened to think I'll never pitch again. . .)   

Not that I ever pitched before. But there was always the possibility . . .

It's odd to find myself almost seventy-one. (Wait a second! When did this happen? It was only a few years ago that I was riding in the car with my mother and she was about to turn forty. I never though I'd be this old, she said.) 

My mother died at sixty-nine. (Virginia would have hated being seventy, one of her friends told me. Virginia said that seventy was really old.) 

I don't know... I guess at this point I'm thinking seventy is getting old and eighty is  pretty old, and ninety, now that's old, and a hundred, really old. . .

But I'll tell you one thing: I prefer to be seventy (or eighty, or ninety, or a hundred) years old.  When folks start calling you however many years young -- that's when you know they think you're actually pretty ancient.

In my case, you'll know I'm senile and past caring if you call me___ years young and I don't hit you with my cane.