A LIFT AND A LAUGH
4th October 2012
Sometimes you just have to have a good laugh – anything will do – but perhaps the most rewarding laugh is at oneself.
I had tooth surgery a couple of weeks ago. Yep. Another one. You may remember the implant that fell out a year ago and earlier this year the bone graft surgery? Turns out that in spite of osteoporosis I can still grow bone when I have to and in order to get that hole used as a tooth holder, I had to. So the time had arrived to drill up through that new bone, lift the membrane and sinus and insert the titanium post. Yes, I did ask the dentist if there was anything else he could lift while he was at it but…So I settled for some gas and 60’s rock music and went home with an ice pack and painkillers, ready to eat soft food for a couple of days and get on with life.
Ah, life, what goodies it has in store for us. Who knew that along with the pain of post-surgery I would also be gifted 5 canker sores in that area, courtesy of the tissue damage from the retractor…no extra charge. For 5 days that side of my face looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy…after he maybe ate himself. And frankly, the pain was so horrendous for 8 days that you’re probably wondering what on earth there is to laugh about. I’ll tell you.
Having been an alcoholic and addict for more years than the 23 I’ve been clean and sober, painkillers scare me. So in order to ride it out without them I sequestered myself in the bedroom for the duration, alternating between watching a British TV murder series…5 series to be exact…and reading Julian Barnes (also British) meditation-slash-discourse on death, the twisted title of which, “Nothing To Be Afraid Of,” I find admirable for its ironic double entendre. What’s laughable now is that at the time, the decision to refrain from pain meds and immerse myself in murder and all other forms of death seemed both sensible and courageous: sensible to distract myself with other people’s misery, and courageous to immerse myself in the fear of death as being unavoidable, according to Barnes’ and the many centuries of famous people whose deaths he gave as examples.
On the 9th day I arose and went shopping for a dress to wear this evening, when I shall be presenting my dear Joel with The Lifetime Achievement Award at the Lucie’s, in L.A; the Lucie’s being to photography what the Oscars are to film. While being fitted for the dress the expert told me I needed to get a bra that would “bring ‘em in and lift ’em up,” which for a minute I mistook as an invite to a
Christian rally.
It would seem that I have arrived at the moment in life when everything needs to be lifted: sinuses, breasts, and all the bits between and below. I’m going for the bra, but then I’m done. I’m a 60’s girl and we stopped wearing what we then referred to as “tit-slings” before the feminists thought it necessary to burn them as an essential part of acquiring equality.
We’re all laughable. All of us making misguided decisions for all the wrong reasons. I told Joel the other day that I feel like I’m on a really fast learning curve these days, learning with every decision I make what is really essential, what is to be gained, and for what price. I actually love how riding this curve feels: it feels like freedom. You get to be in your 60’s (me) or 70’s (Joel) and you know a thing or two. And that’s all you know, 2 things: 1) you are alive. 2) you are going to die.
The great thing about this learning curve is that it enables us to make choices that make living more vital, pared down, and adventurous. And most of these decisions have to do with deciding between more or less: more teeth, less sag; more acquisitions, less freedom; more acceptance, less control. And you have to ask yourself the true questions in order to get the real answer e.g., you want more money or more time? Time to enjoy what you already have; time to play; time to give help to those in need, time to sit on a farm and simply watch the light.
By the time I eventually get this fake tooth on it’s post it will have cost around 8,000 smackeroos. The next time…and I ferverently hope there isn’t one …a tooth falls out I’m going to have to ask whether I want to go through 3 surgeries, $8,000, weeks of pain, too many murders, and a depressing book on death. Or do I want to mind the gap while chomping on a crusty baguette in the Luberon Valley.
When all is said and done a fake tooth and hoisted breasts won’t make me look like a 30 year old. I’ll just look like a 66 year old with an expensive dentist and a good bra.