Eric Demay

I underwent gum surgery last week. Nothing really, but it’s a surgery none the less. The periodontist—Pietro’s his name; smart, cool and attentive, the kind of guy who probably aces on a tennis court—opens the gums up, digs in as deep as he needs to and takes out the infected tooth/tissue. He then fills up the hole with a bone graft, and then stitches it all back together like it never happened. There was also a nail literally hammered in there somewhere.

Anyways. It all went fine. 45 minutes top. I lied down in the chair, Pietro takes the syringe with the longest 6 inch needle, slowly numbing my inner upper lip while saying: “This is the hard part. After this, you just lie back, relax and let me do my work.” And so I did.

Fast forward a week. I went back yesterday to take out the stitches, Pietro walks in to check it all up. I pull back my lips and he whispers “Fuuuuck” fixating my open mouth. He pauses, my eyes are now, them too, wide open. I’m caught off guard, this never happens. Doctors don’t swear. I’m totally uncertain of what he’ll say next.

“That looks good. Really good. Seriously. Mind if I take some pictures?”

And so he did. Man do I love passionate people.