Ardelia's Woes

Well, my loves, I am stepping away from my usual format for a personal Ardelia update. Soooo, it started a week ago when I underwent surgery. Trust me when I say that you don’t want to know anything about it. It’s enough to say that patients are expected to walk like ducks for six weeks after surgery. Soooooo, I was seven days post-op when two of my favorite teeth held hands, and dove out of my mouth. (I was eating shredded wheat at the time, a word to the wise.)

I’ll spare you the whining and begging that it takes to get in to see a dentist on the same day that your teeth break off, even if the remains are hanging there, waving in the breeze. I did, however, finally get in to have the remnants carved from my mouth, along with the root of another tooth that I had ignored for some time.

I do not know how to tell you how I felt that night when my darling daughter stopped over with her long-suffering hubby Ray to cheer and support me, and I told poor sweet and dear Sunny to shut up, seventeen times! I wouldn’t even let them kiss or hug me because everything, EVERYTHING I do causes me to leak somewhere, suffer, spit blood, wet my pants, cry, have gas, or in some cases causes my car to break down. Apparently it’s also causing me to sound like Erma Bombeck. For those of you too young to remember her, she sounds like me. You may think that I sound a little cross, but that isn’t even a percentage of it.

I believe I’ll call Petal this week, after I’ve mellowed out a bit, and whine and swear like a sailor, and she will understand. Everyone here in gentle South Dakota gets that “deer in the headlights” look when I rave. My grandson, who lives downstairs, and thus suffers a lot of collateral damage, has simply disappeared. My great neighbors bring wonderful food, no doubt motivated by fear. Thank you for listening.