Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Most of us take it for granted that December should be a month for festive cheer, not wailing and gnashing of teeth.

So I went for my semiannual dental cleaning with expectations that it would be the customary quick “See ya again in six months” affair.

Unfortunately, at some point, my hygienist uttered the ominous words, “That doesn’t look right.”

It wasn’t the words or the additional scans that convinced me of the gravity of the situation. It was the echo effect in the elusive abscess that had been squatting in my mouth. (“…look right…look right…look right…”)

I’ve kept my WaterPik handy and religiously “Take Aim against cavities,” but sometimes bone level decreases just happen. And this particular happening blindsided me, as in “Writer got run over by an x-ray/Walking home from our house Christmas Eve…”

Seriously, why shouldn’t I have been discombobulated by the diagnosis in this joyful season? Scrooge’s line wasn’t “Are there no prisons? Are there no forceps?” And the old miser was never visited by the Ghost of Root Canals Yet To Come.

I trusted my dentist, so I didn’t stare overly long at the X-rays. I’m squeamish looking at cavities, dry sockets and other imperfections – a fact that my wife and son exploit with sadistic glee. (They could have saved medieval monarchs a fortune on iron maidens, racks and other torture devices. “Wanna see me wiggle a bicuspid, heretic?”)

I was referred to the same oral surgeon who has performed various procedures for my wife and mother. To my relief, he recommended extracting only one tooth, not the impacted wisdom tooth behind it. (Yes, I still have four impacted wisdom teeth, as well as my tonsils, adenoids, appendix and bittersweet memories of my umbilical cord.)

I’m not sure why wisdom teeth enjoy such notoriety. Give an occasional thought to the neighboring “Let’s Google it” teeth or the “What could possibly go wrong?” teeth. But I digress.

I made do with a local anesthetic because (a) my wife assured me the numbing would be sufficient and (b) I was afraid general anesthesia would get Secretary of War Pete Hegseth riled up. (“General Anesthesia? Isn’t he the slacker with the woke double amputation? I’m transferring him to Lower Slobbovia!”)

The stubborn tooth required a tremendous amount of pressure, a drill and removal in two sections; but I came through the ordeal with flying colors. And by flying colors, I mean, “There goes another blood-red gauze pad! He shoots! He scores! He remembers not to drink through a straw for a couple of days! The crowd goes wild!”

I don’t miss the tooth, so I’m not thinking “implant.” That’s like saying, “I lost my brother-in-law. Better get an artificial replacement!”

I even learned why teeth are referred to as “choppers.” You need a medevac helicopter after you see how little your dental insurance pays!

I have managed to roll with the punches and regain my yuletide momentum, but I’m nervous about what other holidays may be disrupted by medical issues.

Will Valentine’s Day be marred by Cupid’s arrow testing the limits of my tetanus vaccination?

Will Arbor Day wind up remembered as Splinter-palooza?

But Easter is the one that really worries me.

“Peter Cottontail, I don’t care if you go hopping down the Bunny Trail – but you’d better hop my spleen right back over here, mister!”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”