Keys and Teeth Still Provide a Laugh

I found it appropriate that nearly seven years to the day that my mom passed away, a déjà vu moment occurred with my dad over the weekend.

It is an unlikely combination, keys and teeth, but why turn down a good laugh?

I was in my dad’s bathroom, about to take him to breakfast, and noticed that his dentures were still in the open plastic storage container. Upon asking him if he needed them to eat, and him replying that the keys were in the door, I distinctly remembered a brief but memorable version of this conversation from 2010.

It was shortly after my mom died, and my wife, Lori and I were helping him clean his house, as well as the unfortunate task of going through her belongings that would no longer be needed.

All three of us were in separate rooms doing different chores. He was taking care of paperwork at the kitchen table, while Lori was going through things in the bedroom that was located between there and the bathroom. This is where I was busy rummaging through the countertop items and cluttered cabinets. She could clearly hear both of us, but we could not hear each other too well due to the position of the rooms. She was like a telephone operator trying to connect two static ridden calls, with each side talking more than listening, and was the lone witness to this communication breakdown.

The conversation went like this:

Me: Dad, ma’s teeth are in here. They’re in that plastic container with water. I’m going to throw them away, okay?

Dad: (in a slightly agitated voice) No! Leave them alone. I still need them. Take ‘em out of that water. You’re going to screw them up.

Me: (a bit questioning and a bit more curious) Really? Why do you need them?

Dad: (using the resourcefulness of a depression survivor tone) They’re still good. I can use them.

A momentary pause as I gave this some thought. I am sure those dentures were custom made, and I have never heard of a one size fits all mouths sales tactic. I feared that stress and age had gotten to him.

Me: You can’t use them. You have your own. These won’t work for you.

Dad: (in disbelief at the suggestion that he cannot get something to work) What are you talking about? They’ll work. Plus, it’s always good to have extra sets. Bring them here and I’ll hang them by the back door.

A shocking pause. Now I think he has lost it. He wants to hang body parts in the kitchen. How do I explain this to the grandkids? He may need professional help. Perhaps a priest.

Me: (complete rejection, voice raised) NO WAY are we hanging them anywhere. I’m throwing them away.

Next pause by dad. He must be thinking that I am being difficult for no apparent reason. After all, who does not want the artfully crafted set of a deceased loved one’s partials on display for all to enjoy?

Dad: Get those things dried off and bring them here. I’ll put them on my keyring then.

An exaggerated pause of disbelief from me. Holy Moses. My poor father has snapped his cap. He is going to carry them with him. His keyring is going to need an orthodontist. So much for a car remote.

Having heard enough, I quickly but nervously walked down the hall, container of teeth in hand. I walked past Lori who heard the entire exchange, but said nothing, quietly thinking we were both nuts. I needed to ask this question again, very slowly and clearly, and watch him respond. He beat me to it.

Dad: (in a “now what’s on your mind, dummy” delivery) What is that?

Me: (holding the evidence like Perry Mason) It’s ma’s teeth. Are you telling me you really want to keep them?

Dad: (disgusted and out of patience) Hell no! What am I supposed to do with her teeth? Throw them away and go get those keys. You’re going to screw them up in that water.

The final pause. As I stood motionless trying to digest the previous few minutes, he shook his head as if to imply I was as dense as London fog. Thankfully, the conversation ended, the only sound being my wife laughing in the other room.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.