Abuela Says, "No!"

Before the world fell apart, back in 2019, I had a root canal on my lower left molar. The procedure was a long time coming, and much obliged, as the crown placed on top restored balance to my mouth and satisfaction to my bite. Until a few years later, when bed rotting with several packs of watermelon sour punch straws — my diabetes-taunting favorite — the yummy-gummy snack yanked the crown right off my then uninsured molar. Curses! Unwilling to risk a bill I knew I couldn’t afford I thanked the dental gods I wasn’t experiencing pain and went on about my snacky business. When I next sat in a dentist chair, a year or so later, I was told two things: the tooth would have to be extracted, and I would need a procedure to clean and create a home for an implant.

First of all, how dare my teeth turn on me like this! We’re supposed to be friends! And dental insurance a scam, because WHY WAS THAT BILL $800?! Greedy fucking bastard insurance companies! Second, and gird your loins for this one, did you know that cadaver bones are often used in dentistry??

My dentist, whom I love for his gentle hands and personable chairside manner, informed me that in the hole where my molar once stood, he would place a “cadaver bone” to serve as the foundation for my new implant. Ain’t that some shit. The first boning I’d receive in over a decade would, quite literally, be dead. The procedure is called an “Allograft;” bone tissue from an organ donor would be used to build up my jawbone to safely support an implant. A terrifically unsatisfying lay. My dentist implanted and grafted the bone into my mouth, where a hole would sit for six months waiting to be filled.

I called Best Friend, “So get this…,”-chuckling on the freeway through waning novocaine as I explained the specifics of my appointment and spiraled through her laughter. I guarantee you she’s [still] laughing reading this right now. “If when we talk tomorrow, I sound like an old Puerto Rican woman risen from the dead, that’s why,” I told her, recounting the prevalent thought in my head during the procedure. We had a hearty 20 minutes of laughter imagining I would spend my dreams that night somewhere in the ancestral plane and would wake the next morning imbued with the spirit of an Abuela gone too soon. She would be a restful bosom on which I could lay my frustrations; she would help me with my Spanish, obvi; force me to solve her cold-case murder, and teach me how to make a Pernil and Arroz con Pollo that would finally win me the Papi-type I’ve been chasing since my twenties. It was going to be beautiful.

Alas, six months later, just a couple months ago, I went in for my follow-up appointment where both my dentist and I discovered the cadaver implant rejected its new home. Abuela said, “No!” ¡Mierda! I can only conclude Abuela was a staunch homophobe who, upon being downloaded on my previous and, lord willing, future head-bobbing and ass-eating activities, wanted no parts, exclaimed, “Que te jodan, maricón,” and threw herself into hellfire. So much for my Papi to break the spell. Abuela even put some stank on her departure: the specialist to whom I was referred for a new and hopefully compatible implant told me the area is now infected! I’m trying to not take it personally, but damn, Abuela, you ain’t had to do me like that! Now I have to wait for the specialist and my insurance to battle it out over how much I’ll have to pay for the specialized procedure; then another six months until I get the new molar implant and the whole ordeal will finally be over.

I’m hoping for a Wakandan cadaver bone this time. Where is T’Challa buried? I just wanna pay my respects; I promise.