Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, sharks are munching limbs like M&Ms. At North Carolina beaches, there were eight unprovoked shark attacks in June — two at one beach where a teenage boy and girl both lost left arms only 90 minutes apart. It’s gotten so bad a man was arrested for yelling “shark” in a crowded theater.

OK, I did make that last part up, but the truth is that I truly can sympathize with those who have lost valued appendages, because it happened to me recently. Those who lost limbs make me realize I’m not alone, and keeps me from the “why me?” mentality of self-pity. We victims can and must adjust to life in the “new normal.” 

One always thinks it only happens to the other guy, until one tragically becomes that other guy. But it’s important that I strive to live a full life in spite of not being completely whole. My life-changing moment occurred last month with no shark or malfunctioning corn shredder in sight. It began benignly enough with a dull pain in my lower front teeth and a disconcerting marble-sized lump in the gum behind.

Certain of oral cancer since I’m a can-a-day snuff chewer, I was glad to see retired dentist, James Landers milling around a retirement open house for Cody Enterprise editor, Bruce McCormack. Cornering him, I related my concern and moving near his face, I opened my mouth wide and asked if he could see the lump. He appeared almost uncomfortable and didn’t look long enough to convince me of a sincere effort.

But he said even though he couldn’t see the lump, I should have a dentist examine it ASAP. “You think it’s cancer, don’t you?” I asked demandingly. He stopped short of saying “no way,” which is what I hoped to hear, but mentioned an abscess as another possibility, which would also require prompt attention. He even recommended a Cody dentist, Laci Rector, who took over his long-time practice a few years ago, and added, “she’s not too hard to look at either.”

I’ve shunned dentists for over a decade, but the pain was recurring, and I found his description of the looker-dentist to be an extra motivator. Ol’ Doc doesn’t lie; I indeed experienced no difficulty staring dreamily into Dr. Rector’s eyes as she neared my gaping yap for a look. “The last time you saw a mouth like mine, it probably had a hook in it, huh?” I quipped. I found her and assistant Millie’s giggles comforting.

But nothing could have prepared me for the words that were soon to come. While her diagnosis would prove both Landers and myself wrong, “external root resorption” didn’t sound lovely either. She explained it as a condition involving tooth roots, nerves and such, and that it’s often caused by past trauma to those teeth.

That made perfect sense since my bottom teeth had to be wired into place about 30 years ago after a midnight, drunken head-on collision with a telephone pole during a Pennsylvania blizzard. But what Laci said next hit me like a Louisville Slugger: “that bottom right tooth needs to come out before it breaks off and creates bigger problems.”

I experienced all the emotions — first came denial, then depression, then anger, and finally shame as I realized my fly had been down this entire time. I had a grave decision to make: do I ignore the advice and pray for a miracle, or go through life missing an important biting tooth? Not wanting to tempt fate, and remembering it would mean staring at the attractive dentist again, I had the extraction days later.

That was a month ago, and there have been good days and bad days, but each day seems to bring another debilitating realization and new challenge. Besides the obvious difficulty of biting into an ear of corn that leaves a ridiculous-looking standing row of kernels on the cob, teeth-track, there’s what I call “tongue displacement.” My tongue just doesn’t feel comfortable anywhere now. It’s constantly searching, probing and pressing against the “phantom tooth” with an OCD, exhausting fervor.

Suddenly without direction, it’s constantly poking through the gaping hole as if in mourning. Even when I try to sleep, the confused tongue seems to be asking, “Where do you want me to rest?” I answer “I don’t know; where did you used to park yourself at night?” Strangely, we can’t remember.

And then there’s the nail-biting handicap with my best bitin’ tooth gone. It’s a hard thing for my teeth-teamwork to adjust to and I find myself resenting the need to do so. And I’ll never adjust to the “Copenhagen conundrum,” degrading that “pause that refreshes.” The spot of the gaping hole had always been a prime pocket for a big ol’ relaxing rub; now it goes right through the “hole-in-the-wall,” rerouting grains to parts of my mouth where they’re totally unwelcome.

Finally, at the risk of sounding shallow, there’s the devastating aesthetics loss. Never again will college girls vote me “the old geezer we’d most like to be stuck in an elevator with.”

Yesterday I was gorgeous; today I’m hideous. In the words of crooner Peter Cetera: “If you see me passing by, and a tear is in my eye, look away, baby look away … don’t look at me; I don’t want you to see me this way.”