it on the tooth. She covers it with gauze.
“Bite down hard on the gauze.”
It’s loose, too big, and digs into the surrounding gum.
“There,” she says. “That should do it. Be careful what you eat.”
“I was.”
Levy limps on the tooth for the next 10 days. It hurts constantly. He limits his diet to smoothies—vegetable or fruit—and Tylenol to 4-6 a day. He could easily take 10-12 but doesn’t want to damage his liver. One evening, Morales comes by for a beer.
Levy says, “It’s just a stupid tooth. I feel like a pussy.”
Morales is sympathetic. “It’s your tooth, man. A painful tooth hurts.”
That’s enough to make Levy feel a little better. Someone who shares his reality. Because of the beer, he skips his normal bedtime Tylenol. No point in giving himself hepatitis.
Even his body worker, Ingrid, senses the disturbance during their next appointment. She lays her hands on his left lower jaw, radiating warmth into it. She adjusts his neck and massages his skull, for nearly 2 hours. He rises from the table. His tooth pulsates.
She says, “I see the swelling in your jaw.”
It’s time to get the zirconia crown. Levy’s jaw throbs as he enters the office. The dental assistant sits him down. He gazes unsteadily through the window toward the little fenced-in lawn east of the office. She takes a probe and with no effort the crown pops off. Ten thousand volts of rotten electricity shoot through the tooth. He screams and almost falls off the chair.
She hurries out to get Dr. McPherson, who arrives quickly. His endogenous cheer barely tempers his own anxiety.
“So, that tooth is pretty tender?”
“Mm hm.”
He numbs it, then returns in a few minutes proudly displaying the lifelike zirconia crown.
“A real beauty, isn’t it?”
It looks like a normal tooth.
He glues it on, takes his tiny hammer and blunt-edged tamper, and taps a few times ceremoniously. He painstakingly smooths off any rough edges. He makes certain it fits perfectly by having Levy bite down on colored foil that shows points of abnormal contact.
“That should settle everything down. Call us if you have any problems.”
“How long do you think it will take before the swelling and pain go away?”
“Three to four days, seven maybe. A week at the most.”
Levy’s nearly ecstatic with hope. Finally, weeks of tooth agony gone in a week! Or less.
It’s a wish, though, and not really an expectation. He knows there’s a problem in his mouth. Driving home, as the anesthesia wears off, the tooth begins to pound. Not surprising, he tells himself. After all, it’s been over two weeks of misery. But those days are over! Be patient.
The zirconia feels like a rock in his mouth. Buyer’s regret immediately sets in. I’m just anxious, he thinks, as he breaks through the palpable yet invisible bubble marking Wheaton’s city limits. “Welcome to the friendliest small town in America” the billboard announces.
A week passes, another 30 Tylenol. Pain interferes with his sleep. He can’t chew on the left side of his mouth. He returns to Phoenix.
The dental assistant sighs as Levy sits down.
“The tough cases always live far away,” she says, as much to herself as to him. As if it were her mouth.
Dr. McPherson enters, his cheer wearing thin.
“Is it throbbing?”
That, being code for “bad.”
Levy nods.
An x-ray is unremarkable; that is, normal.
The crown fits properly, and McPherson files down a fraction of its surface, “just in case.”
Levy asks, “Do you think this has anything to do with the zirconia rather than gold?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What should I do if it doesn’t get better?”
“Give it another few weeks.”
What’s the alternative? Pull it off and replace it with gold? Another two weeks with another poorly-fitting painful temporary? It’s relatively easy to push that prospect out of his mind.
There are good days and bad. Levy’s tooth becomes a spiritual illness as much as a physical one. Maybe he’s being punished. Some kind of karmic retribution.
During his Zen years, Levy studied the works of Dogen. Eihei Dogen (1200-1253) was a Japanese Buddhist monk dissatisfied with his own country’s understanding and practice of Buddhism. He relocated to China where he for many years studied Chan Buddhism with the highest-level teachers he could find. Returning home, he introduced Chan teachings and practice, what later became Japanese Zen.
Dogen described three time-frames for karma—cause and effect, actions and their consequences. There is immediate karma, at the next moment—say, stubbing your toe right after indulging in revenge fantasies. Intermediate karma, days to months later. And long-term, much later, perhaps extending into future lives. Levy always liked this way of thinking about cause and effect. He wonders, now, what have I done that has led to this? Maybe it’s that book review I wrote. The one on Amazon a couple of months ago. If so, it’s intermediate karma.
Levy had written an especially uncharitable critique of a recently-published Bible commentary, of all things. The book was an English annotated translation of Abravanel’s (1437-1508) Genesis commentary. Don Isaac Abravanel was a Spanish royal advisor, rabbi, and philosopher. In his capacity as a financier in King Philip and Queen Isabella’s court, he arranged funding for Columbus’ first expedition to the New World. In his capacity as a Jewish exegete, he composed biblical commentaries that were staunch defenses of traditionalism. His enemies were the “modernists,” those who used traditionalist arguments to promote their iconoclastic agenda. Faced with such opposition, Abravanel laid out formal and meticulous arguments, making tightly-reasoned point after point in his Hebrew writings.
The author of the translation took liberties with Abravanel’s text, removed this or that section which he believed might not hold readers’ attention. Going even further to not to overtax contemporary Bible students, he used a breezy style and modern jargon, both of which detracted from and overpowered Abravanel’s message. Most Amazon reviewers shared Levy’s dim view of the new project.
For Levy, however, the truth was more complex. He resented the book because it revealed his own deficiency in Hebrew. He’s got a 150-year-old Russian edition of Abravanel’s Torah commentary in Hebrew on his bookshelf. It’s one of his library’s treasures. But he can’t read medieval Hebrew, not even modern. One day, he used to think, I’ll write just such an annotated translation of this beautiful book. But, he’s too late. He lost that race.
In Levy’s review, he wrote that the book’s style made him “grit my teeth.”
Aha! That’s it! Levy realizes. It’s “measure for measure.” Punishment reflects the misdeed. It’s like sexual indiscretions leading to diseases of the sexual organs, one of Levy’s favorite examples. Condemning the review with his teeth, Levy suffers through a tooth.
He revises his review and expresses remorse for the tone of the original. He tracks down and apologizes to the author, who is gracious. He agrees that some of Levy’s points are well-taken, while admitting to discomfort at the harsh tone. They exchange several respectful collegial emails and Levy feels forgiven. He’s repented according to the tradition and feels closure. He’s admitted his offense, expressed regret, made amends to the object of his hostility, and asked for forgiveness. The author had forgiven him. Would God? Now, will his tooth feel better?
In