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Fair warning: today’s topic might be classified as TMI. It is the blogger’s prerogative to write pretty much whatever comes to mind, and when one has committed to blogging daily, the day’s inspiration cannot be guaranteed socially acceptable. So consider this your cautionary note. Do not read any further if you are easily grossed out by oral bacteria or other such bodily weirdness.

I’ll just post this photo of a friendly caterpillar so that those of you who prefer to remain ignorant of the inner workings of my mouth can bow out right now.

Still with me? OK. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For sixteen and a half days following my oral surgery I rinsed my mouth with chlorhexidine gluconate, an antibiotic mouthwash meant to protect my gums from infection. It was particularly helpful in the initial days when, to be honest, a thorough brushing was just not going to happen. It looked and tasted like Listerine on steroids, and it seemed to do a pretty good job, as my surgical site healed rapidly.

My last dose of the mouthwash was on Sunday morning. I tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin with great satisfaction. After two weeks of disruption, my dental routine was pretty much back to normal, aside from the occasional need for irrigation. (Don’t know what irrigation is in the oral health sense? You probably don’t want to.)

Fourteen hours later I returned to my bathroom mirror and began to brush my teeth. That was when I first noticed a black stain on my tongue. Thinking it was a remnant from a particularly potent glass of Bordeaux, I swished thoroughly and performed a vigorous scrubbing with my toothbrush. Neither of these efforts restored a healthy pink hue to my tongue. Clearly, the unusual stain had nothing to do with my beverage of choice. That was when I realized that I was several hours overdue for what had become a routine dose of bug-blasting oral uberhygiene.

This is why I avoid medicine in general, and antibiotics in particular. Treating one symptom invariably causes others. The body is an intricate ecosystem populated by friendly flora who keep the icky ones in check. My twice-daily regimen had sufficiently disrupted the delicate bacterial balance in my mouth so that, once ended, it rendered my tongue defenseless against nasty black fuzzies.

This morning the situation was no better. I furiously scoured the offending overgrowth with my toothbrush, but to no avail. For the time being, these critters are here to stay.

Let me tell you, teaching teenagers how to sing while harboring a hirsute colony in one’s mouth is not easy. How does one model appropriate vowel formation while attempting to conceal a darkened tongue? How does one maintain some semblance of oral freshness in a classroom where gum chewing is not permitted? How does one explain an awkward oral fixation to a bunch of teenagers? (“It’s no big deal, kids, just an overgrowth of black fuzzy bacteria in my mouth.”)

This evening, further efforts at bacterial eradication have included the consumption of lacto-fermented beet juice (which is just as appetizing as it sounds) and the emptying of acidophilus gel caps onto my tongue (recommendation: don’t inhale.)

I will concede that a black tongue is less of an inconvenience than a blood-borne pathogen traveling from my mouth to my heart. But only slightly.