About three years ago my dentist told me that my gums were receding around a couple of teeth on the upper right side of my mouth. He claimed that I had brushed the gums into oblivion, although I swear it was that evil Braun electric toothbrush that I no longer use. This is apparently more common on the opposite side of the mouth from whichever hand you favor (I am right handed), so it took uncommon talent for me to brush so vigorously on the right side.

Anyway, I went to a periodontist and he hemmed and hawed and probed and poked. He told me I needed a gum graft to cover the area abraded by my overly energetic brushing. Thinking that he would use some sort of high-tech, titanium-infused meshy material originally used to patch holes in space suits, I was appalled to learn that the graft needs to be ripped out of the roof of your very own mouth and applied to your gums! He suggested that I would be in extreme discomfort for many days after the procedure, and intimated that not even the strongest drugs would put a dent in the pain. I hastily backed out of the office, mumbling something about a cult I belong to that doesn’t believe in removing flesh from the palate, never to return. My dentist regularly chides me for not having the surgery done, but until they can find a way to relieve me of the responsibility of donating precious roof-of-mouth skin, I will continue to suffer from the heartbreak of gum disease.