Until today, I never saw this gold tooth, or the implant it rested on, both lived in my mouth these past few years, ever since I agreed to have a dental implant when I lost a tooth.

The implant process was long, arduous, troubled and expensive, I doubt I would do it again. In fact, I have already decided I won’t to it again. Today, the gold tooth and the implant were surgically removed from my mouth in a two-hour surgical procedure in Saratoga Springs.

The implant had become infected, and the infection was damaging the bone over the roof of my mouth. The doctor said it was removed just in the nick of time, I’m on antibiotics and over-the-counter pain killers.

When the doctor asked me if I wanted the gold tooth – it is worth hundreds of dollars, I said yes, my wife might well make a necklace out of it. This was the first time I saw the tooth, and I was stunned at its shine and color, and also at the length and width of the implant, which I realized had been screwed into the bone above my teeth.

There was one doctor and three nurses and doctors for this surgery. It was once, he said,  considered a very big deal, and might even have been done in a hospital. I would never have been allowed to drive home, or get out of bed for several days.

As it was, he said, I was not to eat solid food for days, or spit for a week, or sleep or rest without my head being elevated. I was not to exercise or run or lift heavy things.

On top of removing the tooth and the implant, he grafted bone from a dead human onto my bone, to try to restore what was lost. We wouldn’t know for months if the procedure had worked. The procedure cost $875, and I was lucky to have it done.

Had I needed a root canal or additional work, it could easily have cost thousands more, and like most Americans, I have no dental insurance aside from being reimbursed for a one or two cleanings.

Insurance companies want no part of implants or root canals or extractions like the one I had this morning. The hardest part was the Novocaine needles, three shots injected through the top of the tooth and from inside the gums.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Kelling, the oral surgeon, and I think he was. His nurse said he went to school for eight years to do this work, and I could see this was true. He was competent, professional and caring.

During the procedure, there were pauses. I had some great talks with a nurse about farming, dogs and living in nature.

I was thinking the rest of the day how routine this kind of procedure is now. Insurance companies don’t pay for hospital stays for too long, and our idea of surgeries has changed.

I thought the doctor and his staff were terrific, I confess to feeling a little alone when I left,  gauze stuffed into my mouth to stop the bleeding, my mind reeling from the elaborate instructions on how to deal with the wound and the pain. Beyond the procedure it was clear I was no on my own.

I thought the pain and blood deserved a little more medical attention. But of course, it was not necessary. Take some Motrin, they said, nobody wanted to talk about painkillers.

I am fine. In keeping with my habit of sharing my life – you get to see my broken heart, and my troubled retina – I’ve taken a photo of my good tooth and implant, neither in my mouth any longer. I was shocked to see them both, I had no idea what they put in my mouth, mostly my eyes were closed at the time.

This kind of operation is just not a big deal any more, although it seemed like a big deal to me. I came home and Maria gave me chicken soup that she had hastily prepared. I can’t eat “hard” foods for at least a week, and my mouth is all  stitched up.

As I get older, I see more of doctors and their offices and are familiar with their ways, the computer calls reminding me appointments, the endless requests for my birthday, the questions about medications and medical history, the permission and consent slips: it’s okay to be treated, I understand the risks, I know I’m responsible for the bill if the insurance company refuses, I agree to letting my wife have my medical history, and also my primary, I understand Hippa.

They will always ask me what my A1C number is, what my blood sugar was that day, if I am allergic to medications, did I take any pills that day. I always wonder what if this was real surgery, like Open Heart Surgery. I spent days signing forms then.

The doctor could not have been nicer. Or busier. He was, after all, a man, so there was not too much chit-chat about me or my life. They leave that to women, and I am grateful for it. The longer I sat in the chair, the bigger a deal it seemed to me.

The procedure started at 10:30 and was done some time after noon. I was home by 2:15 and eating lunch. I was at my computer by 2:30 blogging, checking e-mail, research weltanschauung and dogs  for my radio show.

My wound bled for several hours, by evening I at some soft foods and two slices of thin, vegetable covered pizza, everything organic. The blood has stopped, and I have my gold tooth and the implant sitting in front of my computer, I have been staring at it.

I put all the bloody gauze and took some Nyquill for my burgeoning cold. Blessedly, I didn’t cough or sneeze once during the procedure.

I thought there would be a lot of pain, and there is. Motrin is good for an  hour or so, then fades. I won’t take any more, it will be better in the morning.

The tooth would make a good necklace, and I am still shocked by the implant, it was screwed into my mouth for a couple of years and felt fine to me. I’ll be on  anti-biotics for six days. Hopefully, that will knock out any infection.

I’ll get the stitches out in two weeks.

I think if they don’t make it a big deal, I don’t either, and that is a good thing.  At least they were nice, and that is not always the case.

And I am  mesmerized by my gold tooth. Talk about mojo. Maybe it can be a necklace for me one day.