As I begin this column, it approaches six o’clock in the morning of my printer’s deadline. If I was able last month to glide to a not-too-ungainly finish, this has to qualify as a crash landing. The good news is that I will soon have the tooth extracted that has been diverting my attention for the past six weeks; I have used whatever means at my disposal to stop it from barking at me. Worse is the continued mirth of those to whom I have made the mistake of complaining. They see agony as the perfect excuse to dust off every hundred-year-old dentist joke.
I don’t know why certain afflictions—bad teeth and diabetes mellitus—should occasion such merriment. After living with both for a lifetime, I could easily kick someone who makes a remark like, “I could get diabetes just looking at that donut,” or “I’ll bet you eat a lot of candy.” What if one said, “Oh geez, I think I’m getting lung cancer just looking at that carton of cigarettes?” Laughs, you bet not.
Even worse are those who try to be helpful. People who know somebody who knows somebody who cured their diabetes with diet or who can give me the name of a dentist aren’t making this easier. First of all—my dentists are wonderful. They’re subscribers. They’ve known my teeth for these twenty years and they understand that my teeth hate me. My English maternal grandfather came over here from Lancashire
