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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

The human body is an interesting thing. While we generally think of it as the miraculous, incredible machine that it is, most of us are also all too well aware of its lesser attributes. After all, it's kind of hard to fully escape one's body. Even while we sleep we are subject to its influence. Our bodies are the means by which we experience this world -- the vehicle in which we move through it. And they are by no means perfect.

Take teeth for instance.

When God was in the design studio working with that first clay model (Genesis 2:7) he must have become distracted with some other aspect of creation or something. By all indications the mouth did not turn out as expected. Not only does it often run when it doesn't need to -- it also requires a level of "routine maintenance" that is way too ... well, routine. Maybe that darn serpent had something to do with it, but the chewing system went awry and we've been paying for it ever since.

My first encounter with the poor engineering in this area came one day at about age 7. My mom took me to this place where I read this really neat "Highlights for Kids" book that had all manner of puzzles and games and mazes and things in it, and when I was through with that they put me in this incredibly cool chair that went up and down and backwards and forwards and stuff, and then this really nice man came in and acted pretty clown like for a few minutes, and then the dream went south in a very big way.

Mr. "Fun Time" in his white coat was a ruse. One moment he was smiling and making funny faces and the next he was leaning over me, prying my mouth open and poking around with a steel weapon that was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was curved and sharp and not unlike a miniature version of the scythe carried by the Grim Reaper. Mom was trying to reassure me that this was OK, but I figured they had brain washed her or something. My first thought was, "what would Batman do," so I took a pretty good swing at him. But his accomplice -- some woman also dressed in white -- was ready for this and held my arms to the chair. This went on for a minute or so and then just as quickly as they had sprung upon me they backed off, tried to act like friends again and departed the room.

For several minutes mom again tried to tell me that they were there to help. Had they done a job on her. No matter what I said she wouldn't snap out of it. It wasn't long before they were back and the evil guy in the white coat, (it should have been black), held me down once more. The next part is all kind of sketchy to me, but I'm fairly certain he reached up and took this robotic arm with a drill bit sticking out the end and proceeded to drill my brains out -- or most of them, anyways. I could hear the sound of all that was wrong with the universe screeching in my head and I swear that I saw smoke coming out of my mouth. I had some words I wanted to come out too, but brainwashed or not, mom was still there. I must have lost consciousness 17 times.

I'd like to say it wasn't that bad. But it hurt like hell.

I didn't know it at the time, but they were just trying to fix a problem that most all of us face sooner or later. Kind of like a "recall." I also didn't know it, but this was just the beginning. Things could get worse.

Some seven years later I had another memorable experience with the people in the white coats. This time, it was a friend of my dad. His name was Dr. Bud Martin and I knew him to be a pretty good guy. Which turned out to be only in public, because when he got me in that chair he explained that I had too many teeth in my mouth. Due to yet another pre-existing flaw, I was going to receive the "miracle of orthodontics." This turned out to be having several teeth wrenched out and steel bands and wires wrapped around those that remained. If he had truly explained the whole lot that was about to befall me -- retainers, headgear, innumerable bloody cuts to my gums and at least 725 shots of Novocain -- I would have given him a whole lot worse than Batman could dish out.

And if you had told me that this was going to alter my appearance over the next several years in a way so as to reduce the number of cute girls interested in yours truly, ol' Bud might have checked out of this world long before he was due.

The headgear thing I referred to was in reality a harness that one was expected to wear on one's head while sleeping. It had two large springs on each side that were attached to a steel bar that in turn was attached to two tubes affixed to one's teeth. The idea was to MOVE your teeth slowly while you slept. Sleep? Right! Teeth don't move slowly. They just get real lose, and you guessed it - HURT LIKE HELL. That thing was right out of a medieval torture chamber. Put that on some kids head today and you'd be sued to China. I think I wore it once for Halloween.

"Miracle of orthodontics." The only "miracle" I could tell was that anyone would sign up for such treatment. Of course, no one in the history of the world has ever signed up for such a thing -- their parents do it for them. (I am now, of course, immensely thankful that they entered into this contract on my behalf, but that's beside the point.)

Exactly seven years after the beginning of this pleasant experience I had my wisdom teeth removed with no anesthetic. They were severely impacted so I had a choice of waiting until the infections eased up or having them removed immediately. Now there's a choice for you: suffer in pain that borders on childbirth for two more days or jump in the chair and separate teeth from bone the old fashion way. I chose the course of immediate action. In truth I would have sworn a life of indentured servitude to anyone that could have put a quick end to that misery.

Last year I was informed by a periodontist that my genes have provided me with more gum tissue than is actually necessary and that it could potentially cause problems down the road. He recommended that I undergo a couple of procedures to cut away the excess tissue so that should I live to 95 I'd still have my teeth. I'm still debating that one. It's not like you can take the things with you. Heck, who'd want to?

A friend of mine recently reminded me that we are "Spiritual beings learning to live in human bodies." No one -- least of all God -- said it was going to be easy.

Anyone who's ever had teeth has got to agree.