Crowns and Jewels
Two molars, in the very back, had crumbling silver fillings, the handiwork of Dr. Goodman. My current dentist kept bugging me about getting them replaced. Surely, they would crack when she drills into them, just like the others had, and I’d need root canals before the crowns can be set. The needle wounds from the novocaine injections would cause my jaw hinge to be sore for at least a week, interrupting once again my daily practice routine or a potential performing engagement.
A recent checkup confirmed the dire situation of these molars. Only two more teeth to go, and the ordeal of capping all my damaged teeth could end at long last. I should have looked forward to the prospect, but instead I raged. Once again, I had to succumb to the chair and all of its memories of what is “wrong” with me and why.
Before the dentist began the procedure, I steadied my voice and asked him for what I needed, that he neither question nor minimize my needs. Be mindful to avoid injecting the needle into the nerve at my jaw hinge that connects to sensation nerves in my lip. Pull the cheek and upper lip away from the base of the drill. Keep the lip soft, apply Vaseline often. Allow time for me to swallow. Be mindful of the occlusion (bite connection) of the upper and lower so that my embouchure remains intact, even with the temporary cap. Only one molar at a time.
The procedure went smoothly. I managed to stay present and calm, encouraged by the extraordinary competency of both dentist and assistant. I even smiled a genuine smile of thanks as I left the treatment room and headed for reception check-out. Not so fast, the past seemed to whisper.
Ancient resentment burbled up as the receptionist handed me an itemized bill. How much by insurance, my deductible, my co-pay. I grumbled to myself as she continued on. Another needed item – this time, a home repair – must wait because the money must go toward fixing my teeth. Another bill to clean up a mess my mother made. The debts incurred to fix all that she damaged seem endless. And yet, ringing in my ears are her wailing diatribes about the debts she insisted I owed to her. I ruined her life, you see, for accusing her of incest, for selling an acre of land, for disappointing her over and over again by not laying down my life to serve her unceasing needs.
This time, I thought, Mother will pay this bill from beyond her grave. As the lidocaine wore off and the pain in my jaw increased, so did my resolve strengthen to sell items she gave me. The jewelry. I ravaged my collection for the necklaces she brought back from China. How she reveled in these, extolling their value. Now they all look like blood money, and I vowed never to wear them again. I gathered up everything that I could find of her precious gifts and headed to a local jeweler.
Mother again revealed her true colors, even in death. Only a few pieces of jewelry were worth selling. Some gems and stones were nice enough, but their settings were plastic or their stringing uneven. The strands of pearls would not sell unless I invested in having them re-strung properly. Like so many other times, what she had held out as treasures – material or otherwise – upon closer examination turned out to be nothing more than baubles. I had been duped again.
I accepted the jeweler’s offers on the few valuable pieces, but I was far from finished with the junk jewelry my mother had bequeathed to me. As soon as I got home I went rummaging in the kitchen for our spare coffee grinder (doesn’t every household have a spare?). Humming quietly, over and over, the melody from a hymn “Power in the name of the Lord…Break….Every…Chain,” I snipped off the pearls from their strings into a mixing bowl. Same with the string of worthless amethyst beads. Scooping my hand into the colorful pile of disembodied stones and pearls, I put a handful into the grinder and pressed down.
What sweet, visceral relief of my anguish came from pulverizing those pearls and gems in a coffee grinder! The loud, hideous crunching made me laugh with glee as sparks flew inside the grinder. Thirty seconds of grinding produced a fine powder, which I poured into a metal dish. I filled the grinder five times, drawing in deep cleansing breaths and humming all the while.
Atop the mound of powder in the metal dish, I added remnants of the necklace strings and clasps. I sprinkled sage on the top of it all, poured in an accelerant, and torched it. Watching this homemade funeral pyre, I willed the anger into it to burn out of me. Eventually I sprinkled Holy Water to quench the last embers. Then I went for a walk and buried the composite slag at the edge of a woods nearby where people let their dogs do their business.
Into the trash went the spare coffee grinder.