Her Crown Rests Uneasy in London

I thought I was well-versed in the themes of humiliation, mortification and deep shame. After all, I’d grown up Catholic. But that misconception was shattered two weeks ago when I was in England on my way to videotape the Tower of London for my son, who recently played the young Duke of York in a Glendale production of “Richard III.” He wanted me to take pictures of where his character met his doom.

On the way, I bit into a bagel and felt a twinge. No pain. Just a barely perceptible twinge. But it couldn’t be. I searched to make sure all my front teeth were there, and sure enough, my top front left tooth had “gone missing,” as they say in England. This was a crown I’d had put on only 18 months earlier.

Some people have drowning nightmares; me, I have had nightmares about front teeth (or the lack thereof) ever since having one smashed out as an 8-year-old in a game of chase with my football coach father. Of course, he felt terrible, but my childhood was spent deflecting such comments as, “Why is your tooth black? Chipped? Cracked? Weird? Did anybody ever tell you. . . ?”

“No, never,” I longed to respond, “and I so appreciate you informing me.”

Why couldn’t it have been one of my brothers? For a guy, broken teeth convey this sexy Sam Shepard look or at least a badge of athletic prowess. But for a girl, she’s just “trash,” or “She’s really let herself go,” and “Isn’t that a shame?” or “Be careful not to cut your lip when you kiss her.”

In London, I began living my nightmare. I dug the crown out of the bagel and shoved it back in my mouth, where it promptly fell out again.

This could not be happening. I put it back in again and this time, it stayed . . . as long as I didn’t speak.

Curling my tongue around my tooth to anchor it in place, I quickly videotaped the sprawling fortress of the tower exterior. But it cost 9 pounds (almost $15 U.S.) to go inside. “The hell with that,” I thought. “I have to find a dentist and fast.”

After three attempts, I found a dentist who agreed to reattach the crown. He took it from my mouth and said, “Oh, dear, I have a bit of bad news, I’m afraid. The tooth that was in the crown has broken off, so I’m going to have to drill the crown to get the tooth out, and then drill your tooth to . . . .”

I stopped listening and tried not to panic as I glanced around the large room, filled with at least 15 other patients. But what choice did I have? My flight home wasn’t until the next day. I still had to talk to friends here face to face before leaving. I couldn’t wear a surgical mask or a bag over my head. The friend I was staying with had a small child, who would no doubt throw up (or scream) if I grinned at her in such a hideous state. But I should have foreseen what would happen when the dentist disappeared for 10 minutes in search of tooth cement.

“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” I asked as he stirred up three vials of white pasty stuff with a swizzle stick on the dental tray in front of me.

“Many times,” he replied. “But I should let you know you have four choices. You can leave it alone. Some people don’t have a front tooth, but I can see from the look on your face that is not an option. Two, you could have the crown replaced. Three, you could do a bridge. Four, I think your country does a lot of implants.”

So he drilled and reattached it. Afterward, I inspected his work with my tongue and could feel the abomination at once. He gave me a mirror, which only confirmed my worst fears. The crown was now hanging well below the rest of my front teeth, jutting out. I tried to remain calm, tears rising.

“This doesn’t match my bite,” I said.

“But you see, it is the best I can do under the circumstances. I didn’t want to put strain on your bite.”

“But my bottom teeth are knocking against this tooth. Isn’t that a strain?”

“You’re the only one who will notice that it’s slightly . . . irregular.”

Yeah, right!

“When you return to Los Angeles tomorrow, your dentist can fix it, but you must be very careful when you eat. Very careful. Avoid peanuts and treacle.”

On that note, I gave up. I thought if I tried to force him to fix it, God knows what he’d do next. So I was back on the streets of London, feeling like I had a penny for a tooth.

I met a friend for lunch in Covent Garden, and I’m sure he thought I’d gone crazy, for I ate my Tibetan noodles out of the side of my mouth, keeping one hand over my teeth, while using chopsticks. I couldn’t tell him the story or I’d start crying, but I kept thinking, “This was not supposed to be how I spent my last day in London.”

When I returned to my friend’s flat that evening and told her what happened, she made me show her the damage and announced, “It’s not that bad.” She’s a very good liar, I thought. She launched into a story of breaking a tooth in Africa. But was it a front tooth? I’d welcome a broken middle or back tooth any day over front and center.

Then we went to see “Titanic,” and I was grateful to sit in the dark, gorging on chocolates (out of the side of my mouth), not having to talk to anyone. After the film, she and I stayed up late drinking endless cups of tea and smoking cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but those cigarettes were lovely, and she’s a good enough friend that she made me laugh so hard I nearly forgot about the catastrophe in my mouth.

Back at the airport in Los Angeles, my 7-year-old daughter met me at the gate and said, “Ew, what happened to your tooth?” My 9-year-old son later told me he was “too polite” to say anything. My husband only looked sympathetic. The following Monday I went back to the dentist who installed the crown 18 months earlier, where began the next round of calamity.