My Non-Vow of Near Silence

Since Tuesday, I have been on a low speech diet. I had periodontal surgery to graft and patch up receded gums on two of my teeth. This is the result of reckless and brainless hard brushing in my younger days (dear people, brush your teeth with care). So I've had to strictly limit my talking for a week, so facilitate the healing. In 3 hours we will have passed the three and a half day, halfway mark, a psychological threshold I will pass just before sleeping...!

The periodontist was very meticulous and generous with the local anasthetic, so I had the luxury of mentally singing songs, imagining what was going on in my mouth. From what he had said, and as he gave instructions during surgery, a layer of gum tissue is harvested from the palate with a laser, and grafted onto the receded, exposed root areas of the patient teeth. It took longer than my previous major dental procedure, a wisdom tooth extraction that the doctor ended after an hour and a half with a shoulder-sinking exhalation: "that was tough". Say it again - that was painful! This operation took two hours, but was painless. The cut and pasted areas were stitched and patched up.

The ongoing treatment is more labourious, though. To let the grafted tissue stick to its new home I need to avoid movement to the jaw and friction against the mouth walls. The doctor said in no uncertain terms, you must not talk for a week. Silence would be the best guarantee, I suppose, but that could be negated by resultant psycho-somatic spasms from alienation from the human race. So I am just talking very, very little. Not that I talk a lot, but not talking at all?! Worse than not physically speaking is being cut off from people, having to refrain from saying as much as I'd like to my wife (now you know who's writing), and being physiologically incapable of smiling - due to the patches that are wrapped around the teeth and gums and press against the cheek (like half a mouthful of chewing gum permanently stuck to the teeth, or the whole row of teeth buried in clay - it's hard to picture in words and a bit too grotesque to photograph).

But the hour will come, Tuesday 145pm, when the patches will be removed, and hopefully the periodontist will say, nice, or something to that effect. Pray the graft will stick and I can bid speech a hearty welcome back!

All in all, this is an interesting experience, having a foreign growth bugging round the clock, restraining the tongue, and - have to mention - eating pulp food for a week. And talking with a thlight lithp. Being pampered by good wife :). All worth it.