I have a recurring dream.
More precisely: there is an event that occurs again and again in my dreams, though the settings and circumstances change. It happens most often just before I rise to give a dream speech, or lead a dream class, or preach a dream sermon.
It always takes me by surprise. It always begins slowly and accelerates without warning. It’s always messy and permanent. It’s always accompanied by a sense of terrible loss.
In dreams, my teeth fall out.
Often.
Usually, my dream self notices one of my teeth is loose, so I start worrying it with my tongue. In a few seconds, I can feel tiny fibers ripping away … and the tooth slides into the center of my mouth.
Others follow suit, sometimes coming out strung together like a necklace of sharp little pearls. I wind up with a jagged mouthful of broken enamel. In the worst of these dreams, even my soft palatte loosens and peels away. And, of course, in my best dream-like fashion, I continue trying to speak, or sing, or preach. As they say, the show must go on.
This morning at breakfast, just as I tuck into my bowl of Special K with Red Berries, one of my molars shatters. The old black metal filling gives way, and shards of broken tooth get mixed in with my mouthful of cereal.
The feeling of unreality hammers me. I find myself waiting for the other teeth to follow suit. I suspect that I’ve drifed off to sleep after Clyde left the bed. I check for other dreamsigns: newspaper articles with shifting text or clocks without hands on their faces.
It takes me several seconds to be convinced I’m not dreaming.
The dentist works me in, but just as I plop down in the seat, the compressor under his office bursts. The threatening little drills hiss and sigh. Doctor Duke shrugs. “There goes the compressor. We’ll have to do this tomorrow.”
So here I sit, with a jagged stump in place of an upper molar.
The flu. Migraines. Blood pressure hijinks. Broken teeth.
So far, 2005 ain’t my favorite year.
2100 words on Fool’s Errand today, despite the freaky tooth business.
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