Clearing the way for the new arrival

I have to confess; the anticipation was worse than the procedure.

No one looks forward to a tooth extraction, but I suffered an irrational degree of angst.

But thanks to the skills of a gifted oral surgeon, my distress proved to be groundless

The extraction went well and the pain was minimal, unless we’re talking about the hurt exacted upon my bank balance.

Regrettably, the process could take a year or more since an implant procedure is achieved over prolonged periods.

My advice? Consult a mortality table before you commit to such a path.

At least the extraction part is out of the way.

So is the bone graft.

Bone graft?

I really wasn’t sure I knew what that was all about, but I was told I needed it to ensure a successful implant.

So I looked it up on the Internet.

I’m sorry I did.

Not that it was necessarily such a disturbing report, but it contained one word that caused all the distress: “Cadaver.”

Apparently, the bone matter that was shoved into the empty space in my jaw was provided by a past member of the human race. Or should I say “passed” member?

Any way you put it, it’s a rather weighty concept to grasp.

My only prior experience with a graft was unremarkable. It had to do with a tree I purchased that produces two kinds of fruit. Apparently, tissue from one tree was grafted to another, so now I have a peach tree that also yields apricots.

But the graft I received was on another scale altogether. This isn’t an apricot in my mouth, it’s apparently some dead guy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. An organ or tissue donation is a generous gift extended by a virtuous donor whose benevolence becomes a source of self-perpetuation.

One such benefactor lives on in my mouth.

I’m just not sure if I’m supposed to track down the donor’s family to thank them. There are countless stories about people who have been able to trace their donor’s descendants only to wind up forming a lasting bond.

I’m not suggesting the bone donation is on a par with, say, a lifesaving organ, so it’s not likely we’d develop that same depth of connection, but dinner might be nice.

How proud would such descendants be knowing their late uncle is helping me chew my tri-tip?

But if I can’t locate the family, I’m going to honor the unknown donor by giving the new tooth a name.

I was planning to call it George, but my wife complained that selecting a man’s name was sexist. She wanted to play a role in the decision-making since the implant and bone graft will become part of our expanding family.

She suggested we not only choose a gender-neutral name, but one that also reflects our heritage.

So when the tooth finally appears, assuming I’m still upright by that time, we’ll be calling it “Brooklyn.”

We’re not exactly sure when it will arrive, but we’ll be sending out announcements.