Translations

 

            Translations 

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Dear Kathy and Richard,

Thank you for sending the amazing photos that you take on your walking tours throughout the mountains of France. They are truly beautiful glimpses into the countryside you traverse.

I suppose you think I envy you the pleasures you experience these days. Oh, far from envy, my dear friends. While you trudge through the rain and the mud, or sunshine, on toward the next village or city where you stay the night in luxurious hotels, explore the neighborhoods via roadways built in Roman times, eat exotic foods of which I cannot even imagine, I hold to my heart pleasures of which you know not.

I just spent three intensely glorious hours at the dentist. Translate that to tortuous. But first the back story, an example of jumbled languages.

Last autumn I began Covid-delayed dental care. This was a weeks, nay, months-long process. I like to blame Covid for my less than timely dental care, but in truth, dentist offices wipe me out at the knees with terror. It’s a childhood thing. Bravely, I had a tooth crowned, a dead tooth pulled and several cavities filled.

My dentist told me I have a cracked crown that she would like to replace and another couple . . . And here is where my limited understanding of Spanish failed. Now, grant you, I am capable of garbling even words in English to mean what I’d rather hear. I got it into my head that there were a couple more little cavities but no hurry. Which didn’t make sense but I didn’t ask questions.

Meanwhile financial drought hit my pocketbook which delayed dental care another several months. Finally, the day came, back to the dentist.

“About the cracked crown,” I said as best I could, “I’m not sure whether to replace it or pull it. There is nothing below to bite against. Aren’t there a couple cavities left to care for first?”

“No, no cavities,” she said. “I’d like to replace your two front coronas.” (Corona being crown.)

Oh. How in creation did I mis-hear “crowns” for “cavities”? “Okay,” I said. “Do them first.”

Way back story: In 1968 a truck T-boned me on the highway. Among other injuries, I sheered off my two front teeth against the metal steering wheel. (Remember when vehicles were made of Detroit steel?)

That first set of crowns lasted me many years. The second set gave me difficulties. My own fault. The good dentist, in jamming the second tooth onto the base, didn’t get it on before the cement set. He wanted to take it off, make another. I just couldn’t face that whole process again, so I said, “Leave it. I’ll live with uneven front teeth.”

And, live with it I did. One tooth lower than the other, my bite off. I’d like to say it didn’t bother me. I didn’t realize how much it had bothered me subliminally until Dr. Imelda told me she’d like to replace it. Immediately I was excited, terrified, yes, but excited.

So, dear Kathy and Richard, while you trudged through the historic sites in France, I spent three hours in the dental chair with all the pleasures that picture elicits. Shots with gigantic needles, grinding with every grinder tool in the workshop, pliers, hammers, a sawzall, four kinds and colors of goop jammed into my mouth in forms, water up my nose and down my neck, porcelain chips on my tongue, plasticine around my lips. Oh, my friends, I had such a good time.

My new teeth today are “provisional”. I love that word. In a couple weeks I will have two new teeth, permanent. Forever teeth. Both teeth will be the same size, will hang evenly in my mouth. I’ll be able to bite in front again. 

Meanwhile, like you, my friends, I’m eating differently than my usual. Oatmeal, mashed potatoes, pureed carrots, yoghurt, pates, ice cream, that sort of thing. I would send photos but I do not want to goad you to jealousy.

With teeth gritted in love,

Your friend, Sondrita

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

May toward the end of month

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