Fred, You Suck

                So I went to the dentist last Thursday. No cavities, I floss regularly, it was basically a routine visit—EXCEPT, of course, for the massive lump growing on my gum-line.

                Yeah.

                The lump doesn’t hurt, or hinder my eating and/or talking capabilities, or do anything but really just sit there like a bump on a particularly talkative log, so I had just accepted it as a natural part of the landscape of my mouth until someone (AKA my dentist, Doctor B) decided to tell me otherwise.

Doctor B freaked out a little bit when he saw the lump, although he tried valiantly to hide it (there’s no place for nerves in a man who’s wielding sharp instruments inside another person’s mouth, after all). His hands didn’t shake and he kept his voice quite calm, but what gave his concern away was just how vehemently he wanted me to visit an oral surgeon, along with the look of utter horror on his face when he recommended a certain surgeon to me. Another clue to the gravity of this problem came in the form of Doctor B literally calling me every day until Tuesday, asking me to make an appointment because “you need to get the growth looked at as soon as possible.”

                Now, when people in medical profession use the phrase “ASAP,” most people get a little… worried. Understandably so. I, however, have absolutely no concept of what this “worrying” thing everyone keeps talking about might be, so I waited until the aforementioned Tuesday in order to make an appointment for today, Thursday.

My family and I joked about the lump during the day leading up to my visit to the surgeon; a betting pool was started, where we all wagered various chores on what, exactly, the lump might be. My bet was that the lump contained the vestigial bits-and-pieces of my evil twin (I know I have one somewhere); my mother went the safe route and betted that it was an abscess. Dad thinks I have a mutant anarchist tooth trying to sow the seeds of unrest beneath the delicate political balance of my molars. My elder sister just looked at us like we were nuts and put down garbage duty on the possibility of an infection.

                The appointment was today at 11 AM. I went into it feeling chipper, optimistic, and rather silly, because it felt like we were making a huge deal out of something minor. After all, it was just a little bump, only about as big as a pencil eraser! What in the world was Doctor B making such a big fuss about? Surely the surgeon would agree with me that this was all quite unnecessary, right?

                Alas, Doctor W, the surgeon, seemed to agree with Doctor B instead of me. He has me booked for surgery for 5 AM tomorrow, after dealing with me from 11 AM to roughly 11:01. He viewed the lump for maybe ten seconds and filled out the appropriate paperwork in another fifty.

                Apparently, the thing in my mouth means serious business. Obviously so.

                I don’t mean to scare any of you with this post. I’m sure I’ll be fine, and I’m sure the lump will turn out to be nothing. Doctor W says it’s a tumor (though whether it’s malignant or benign is currently unknown) and that it looks like the type that will grow unchecked if not promptly removed. The reason for the urgency of my surgery is because we don’t precisely know what the thing is—Doctor W is of the opinion that when in doubt, you need to cut it out, and this thing is prime cutting material. So, tomorrow I shall be doped up on Valium and some other crazy medications and have my tumor (whom I have affectionately dubbed ‘Fred’) excised.

On a brighter note, I’m going to attempt to have my mother tape me coming out of anesthesia, so that’s something to look forward to. I have an amazing track record of saying crazy things while under the influence of painkillers.

                 Future Talk will be posted sometime today! Look out for it!

                                Love, Graphospasm