Goodbye, Gold: A Horror Story

WARNING: This post may be a little gross.  Parental Guidance Suggested - some material may not be suitable for children. AL (Adult language) DS (Disturbing scenes)

I have had gold in the back of my oral cavity for years. And years. This gold cost us dearly at a time in our life when we could ill afford rice or other, much less important, staples. It's been mentioned as a source of equity, though we've never had to cash in.

Until recently. Apparently the price of gold has risen. Enough that the crown decided of its own volition to spend itself. While eating a Little Debbie Swiss Roll, I suddenly bit down on something hard and frightening. Despite the Swiss Roll deliciousness, I spit out the offending rock. The rock was golden and gross. In its place was...nothing. Immediately I became upset at the thought of this great loss and prepared to throw the contents of the paper towel into the trash. My husband insisted that I carefully place the golden rock into a zipper-type bag. Of course, only a freezer-grade gallon-size would do as there were no other containers. 

At what must have been 4:00 a.m., my husband roused me from my sleep and insisted that we see a dentist. Gold rock in hand, I sheepishly sat in the dentist's chair and showed him the bag. 

"Ah, good," he said, "it is perfect. We'll have you back together in no time." The dentist cemented the golden rock back into it's rightful place, but that would not do. I could not eat for the worry that the thing caused. Within the hour my entire face hurt and my teeth could not reach the food I funneled in. Swallowing whole forkfuls of rice and gravy cause a horrid aching in my throat. By the next morning I was crying to return to the kind man and beg him to remove the golden piece. 

"No, no, I can save it," said he. "It is a quick, painless procedure." To set things right the dentist used sandpaper to grind the gold like coffee beans from the crown's smooth top. 

Ah, but he was a mean, deceitful adversary and, while he took some of the gold, he left sharp edges, a piece of shovel and one small, pointed fork. Below all this hardware was a void that the remaining gold would use to store sustenance while it conspired to escape once more. 

First it allowed the tongue to pry and push, but many hours later the tongue became exhausted and gave up the work. Next the gold set its sights on the cheek. This cheeky fellow pretended to help, but the gold saw through the its impudent ways and gave it a good lashing. Like a child the cheek would not learn on the first offering. It often interrupted the workings of the gold by getting in the way, laughing at it's attempts, or sleeping alongside the gold when it rested. 

Thanksgiving turkey quickly found the void and proved itself useful in strengthening the gold. Christmas ham with its salty properties calcified the cement. However, it was the January fireworks which caused the grinding and clenching that would bend the golden savage. Suddenly, the void gave way to an avalanche of crumbling, calcified cement smashing and cutting into gums, tongue, and cheek. Yet, the golden rock remained in its place.

"The crown must be removed," I cried. "I can take it no longer."
"No," said the dentist, "I can save it." But I knew he could not.
Once more he tried in vain to convince me, "It can never be replaced. You must let me try."
"No," I responded with tears in my eyes. "I shall see an oral surgeon who will do whatever it takes to remove this insidious gold."

Two days later I received the call. "Today. 3:00. A place called AOS. Do not be late," said a sinister voice. I know not whom.  Though it required much investigation, I deduced the place where the surgeon does his barbarian work and begged my husband to drive me.

"I cannot go alone. I am terrified and fear that I may not return," I cried. After much begging and pleading on my part, he relented and angrily snatched the keys from my hand.

We arrived at a large, dark building in the middle of the city. I know not where as there were many twists and turns, and I could not see out the window crouched on the floor as I was. After much cajoling, followed by many curses and threats, the love of my life forced me from the car. 

He then pushed me into the building where the windows were tinted and covered with heavy blinds. Tears streaming down my face, I signed form after form. Perhaps I am signing my life away, I pondered, but nothing mattered save the removal of the golden rock.

I alone was allowed beyond the heavy door and lead down a long hallway. I was placed into a machine that spoke to me in an eery, other-worldly voice before enclosing my head in a contraption that swirled and turned until I was dizzy. "Open your eyes," said the tomb-like echo, "and back away from the machine." In a trance, I did as I was told. 

Before I could gain self-control, I was taken to a closeted room where I was interrogated for what must have been hours. Relenting, I provided the answers they wanted and was moved to another, smaller room with a couch where I was to lie in stillness. Without warning, the chair moved and I found myself in a position akin to hanging upside-down. I held onto tiny bars, knowing I would land on my head should I fall.

A man laden with instruments of torture, calling himself "Dr. Smith" entered the room. I squeezed my eyes shut. The woman next to me forced my mouth open and placed a vise between my teeth. Ratcheting my mouth open until I was certain my jaw would break, she said something incoherent to the surgeon. The words they spoke were of another language; I understood nothing. 

Dr. Smith proceeded to stick me with what may have been needles for I felt them probe deep inside my gum, beyond the area of the gold. My brain bursting, I lay quietly, though surely I trembled in fear, tears forever streaming. 

I never lost consciousness and sensed that I was aware of everything that transpired, though I can remember nothing of the episode from the time that Dr. Smith began his hideous work. There may have been some sensation of pressure or pulling, but I will never be sure.  

At some point, I was brought upright and Dr. Smith questioned me further. There was an abyss where the gold had once been. It bleed but strangely I did not feel pain. Eliciting my secrecy, someone gave instructions for my care and showed me the door and I wandered into the bright sunlight, where my husband found me mute but seemingly whole. As we sped from this place of agony, we looked at each other stupefied but, speaking not a word, we wondered...where was the gold?

Link Ups! 

A finish, though not a quilty one.

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Disastrous and Dreadful ~~ With a Happy Ending

For all that was lost, my family is safe and sound, sleeping in my house as I write this post. On Thursday our oldest son and his family lost their house and all of their belongings to a fire. 

Will was offshore, working. The two teenagers were at school. Stacey and Dusti taking baby Milly Christmas shopping. No one was home. No one harmed. (I can't even think the alternative.) 

As the fire began to grow in the attic, two off-duty firemen happened by and tried to determine whether there were people inside the house. The two pets were home, one inside and outside. The dog barked and they forced the door open to free her. 

About the same time, in tears and panic, terrified of what she would find, Stacey called us. She turned to go home but didn't want to be there without us. Of course, we raced over. When we arrived the smoke had begun billowing from the roof. In only a few minutes there were flames. I was on the phone with Will telling him things would be okay, and we were there to help. 

Then I saw those terrifying orange flames and, on the verge of tears, told him to come home, now, to take care of his family. By the time he arrived via helicopter and truck, the fire had been extinguished, but everything lost.

Older homes in Louisiana (1960 and earlier) were often built of cypress planks. There was plenty of cypress available in the southern half of the state, it's a hardwood that lasts a century or more, and it's beautiful. 


Will and Stacey's home was hand built by a young couple who raised their family then retired. After the husband died, Mrs. B decided that another family would bring life back to the house. She kept in touch with Will and Stacey and they remained friends. 

Almost every piece of wood on the house was dry, dusty cypress cut and nailed 57 years ago. When Mrs. B got news of the fire she went over to console them and told stories of the house from its very beginning--she cut the wood, her husband walked on the rafters and terrified her, how they slowly added to the house over the years, and so on. How sweet is that? She must have been aching to see her family home reduced to flames but focused her concern on the people who were losing it. 

It took hours for the fire to do its damage. Houses of the era often had cross beams meant to slow down a fire as it travels up a wall. This fire began in the attic and did the fastest damage there, dropped down onto the ceiling, which eventually caved onto the floor and walls in the center of the house.

Meanwhile, volunteer firefighters with as many as 10 trucks did all they could. They fought the flames from one side while it roared to the other. More trucks arrived, so they cut a hole in the roof and used additional hoses to spray into the attic from the back of the L-shaped home, but there simply was not possible to fight from all sides. 


A draft, a shift in the wind, a bundle of something stored in the fire's path, so many variables can affect the route of the fire that it's difficult to know what to do, where to do it, and what to do it with. 

Volunteers train often and hard, but in rural places we know that the odds of saving a building are not good. Volunteers may be unable to come. Others may be not trained for the type of fire that is raging. (Ours was an electrical fire.) The gas, electric and water companies must all have men on site to assist in turning off utilities which can make situations even more dangerous. One doesn't realize the complexities of what has to be done or the safety protocols set in place until they affect your life and home.

Eventually they did extinguish the flames, then the smoking embers on the inside walls, and the "hot spots" that are most persistent. At last, the exhausted men and women were able to remove their heavy coats and boots and return home. Will had arrived and tried to assess the damage, but the cyanide gases inside the house prevented him from even looking in the windows.

The only thing left to do was to find a place to take a bath and try to rest for the night. In the morning they returned, unwilling to accept the devastation. But while they suffered a loss which breaks our hearts but is nothing compared to what could have been. 

They decided to come here for a day or two to regroup and shake off the nervous shock. Once they talked it over as a family, they decided to stay until after the holidays. So everything in my world is upside down and crazy. Quilting and blogging will be put aside so that I can help with the many, many details of finding a way back to living a normal life. But we are together and safe and that is all that matters.

Horrors!

We had some excitement in our little town a few days ago.  It's not often (thank God) that the Volunteer Fire Departments from three or four towns pull into a driveway right across the road. 

The fire caused some damage in the fields across the road from our home, and the fire trucks caused additional damage as they drove through the mud and grass cutting ruts.  If these ruts are not fixed, the erosion will eventually create bogs.  All of that, however, is not a concern for our family.  We have tractors and the pasture can survive till the summer when it will be easier and drier for such chores.

This scene, though, is cause for more immediate concern.  What looks like a small pickup was actually a large four-wheel drive. The young driver and his family were able to get out safely but it was quite upsetting to consider how horrible the outcome could have been.

They were legally on the land and were not mud-riding.  Thinking they were on hard ground, but unable to see through the thick grass, they slid into a boggy area.  A few adjustments put the truck in 4WD but the bog was slick and the tires just dug deeper into the mud.  A spark from the muffler set the tinder-dry grass on fire and spread before they realized it. Although they tried to put the grass fire out, they quickly lost the fight and left the vehicle.  

In our house across the field and road, we heard the blast when the gas tank blew and almost immediately saw the firetrucks arrive. There was nothing to be done for the truck, but the men were able to put out the grass fire and prevent it from spreading.

The damage is amazing.  I could not believe the condition of the truck, although I saw the fire and smoke from a distance.  

Nothing is left except the metal. Every bit of cloth, plastic, rubber, leather, vinyl, and so on is gone.  

The dark blue paint is now a white ash that flutters off in the wind.

The large tires are now rims with bits of wire encircling them.


This is the motor.  The motor!

Although the family is upset over the loss of a new vehicle, they are grateful and blessed.  And they know it.  The adults and children who were in the truck were able to get out and to safety before the gas tank blew.  Of course, it was upsetting and frightening, but they are safe and that is all that matters.

Top of the arch? No fear!

Last week we visited St. Louis and had the opportunity to go downtown with family.  Everyone (almost) had plans to go up to the top of the arch to enjoy the view.  Now, the last time we did that, I had one major panic attack.  It was a horrible, embarrassing experience and the idea of repeating it was not something I wanted to consider.

On the other hand almost everyone, including our granddaughter Dusti, was going up and I wanted to share the fun.  What to do? What to do?   Well, for starters offer to stand in line while everyone else goes about the business of looking around, visiting the museum and so on.  

That gave me some time to  decide whether I could face my fear of heights.  I decided to get enough tickets so that I could go up with everyone else, should I really decide to go.  I believe in open options when possible.

Eventually we did go up, myself included.  No, I did not end up sobbing on the stairwell while waiting for the tram.  

Thank goodness because it occurred to me later that Richard was the one who kept me from climbing down the stairwell, which is off-limits to visitors.  

During that panic attack I very much wanted OUT. now. by any means. forget the rules.  let me GO.  Of course, I said all that and perhaps a few other things between sobs and snot and sick feelings that I was going to fall to my death.  

That the arch is completely enclosed made no difference.  Logic and reality are not part of the solution.  They aren't even part of the problem.  So don't try to talk logically to a panic attack.  Panic attacks don't listen; they are tornadoes of action and reaction until they finally spin themselves out.  Logic, indeed.  Throw logic at a tornado and see what happens!

This time Richard chose to watch the air show, leaving me to my own devices.  No panic attack for me or anyone who happened to be at the top with me.  Can you imagine being that lucky person?  See, you just never know what kind of kooks are standing right beside you.

  So, how did I avoid the breakdown?  I'd love to say I just maintained control and kept myself busy snapping pictures and chatting.  The truth is, though, I haven't a clue.  There was some arch movement and I felt a twinge of vertigo, but it just didn't happen.  

Of course, that means I'm capable of complete and total tornado meltdown (snotty sobs, clawing, gnashing of teeth and dragon-like hissing) anytime I find myself vulnerably high off the ground.

So be warned, if you ever see this kook chick in high places, step aside and let her by.  She may seem perfectly find, but don't let the smile fool you.

She's capable of some pretty ugly whirlwinds and cannot be trusted with high society.  Well, you know, that being society up high, off the ground and in the path of high winds.