Anybody remember that seasonal “South Park” character Mr. Hanky, the talking, er, poo with the Santa hat that would show up and say, “Hidey-ho!” or something like that?
Well, that’s what I felt like had been left in my Christmas stocking in recent days. One turn of misfortune after another had left me full of self-pity. First I learned I would need yet another root canal on one of the teeth that was cracked in the 2008 car crash that led to my brain injury. (But thanks to that TBI, I’d been able to smell that something was up when I flossed.)
Then that night, while flossing as I sat on the bed, something fell in my lap: the crown over yet another tooth. Hidey-ho! And this same thing had happened to me months before while I brushed my teeth over the sink. This was a different front crown, I forget which, but I’ll never forget what my mouth looked like. The horror, the horror!
So wah-wah, poor me.
My husband took care of everything, getting me an appointment today for the crown replacement (I was going to keep my mouth shut until Monday, when I get root-canaled) and explaining that my anti-seizure drug tends to weaken teeth and bones.
He then drove me to a yoga class, which he knows works like magic for my outlook.
Bad teeth … bah! I’m alive, I’ve got family and friends who love me and it’s Christmastime.
Down the drain, Mr. Hanky! (Well, not the cartoon character; he’s hilarious.)