Grandmother’s Teeth

My grandmother wore the smallest hat size—yes, hats for both men and women used to come in different sizes—and she, jokingly, called herself a pinhead. By contrast, her teeth seemed especially large. She said that as a child, she was constantly teased about them. People would ask if they could use one of her teeth as a tombstone; then they’d recite a long paragraph of all the words they would have carved into it. 

Her teeth were lovely and regular, but each one of them seemed just a bit larger than a usual tooth, made more noticeable by her small face. She used to say that as a child, she loved the taste of vinegar and used to drink it by the glass. She figured it was that habit that had caused her teeth to be extra strong and large. That never made sense to me, but I had no data with which to refute it.

Her teeth served her well. She was in her 70s when she got her first cavity. In her late 80s, her health wasn’t keeping up with her teeth, and I took her to the hospital several times for one cause or another. Every time, as she was being wheeled away, a nurse would demand that she take out her false teeth. The first six times I saw this happen, Grandmother would explain that they were her real teeth and didn’t come out. Unfortunately, every single one of the nurses didn’t believe her and rudely reached into her mouth to remove them forcibly. Apparently they couldn’t conceive of anyone her age having all their natural teeth.

The seventh time I put her in the car to take her to the hospital, she made a vow: “I’m going to bite the next nurse who sticks her hand in my mouth and tries to take out my teeth.”

I meant to warn whatever nurse she got, but by the time the usual paperwork had been done and the doctor had visited, and preparations had been made for the next test, I‘d forgotten. As they wheeled her away, I heard a scream, and then these words fading down the hallway: “I told you, these are my real teeth.”