Q: What is the best time to go to the dentist?A: 2:30 (tooth hurty)...
I may have mentioned previously that I am something of a hypochondriac. It’s not my fault – it’s as hereditary as my increasingly expanding hairline and my roman nose (roamin’ all over my face, that is). So it will come as nothing of a surprise to you when I explain that I also possess a rather diminished pain threshold.
So when, last week, the world’s worst hangover™ was unwelcomely and unexpectedly teamed with the toothache to end all toothaches, I was perhaps ill equipped to cope.
I’ve never been a fan of my teeth. They’re bunched and disordered in that typically British way, more ivory than Cowell-brite and due to the excesses of my youth, littered with more fillings than I’d care to publicly admit on the interweb. The offending gnasher, victim of some crappy dentistry in my teenage years and neglected by graduate poverty, was the worst of a bad bunch, and, when the poor blighter was yanked ceremoniously from my gob, it would be fair to say we didn’t part on good terms.
Rattling with ibuprofen, I’d called my dentist and, like calling an old friend when you need a favour, we exchanged uncomfortable, loaded pleasantries. To my horror, and, no doubt, the horror of the immaculately-dentured girl on the end of the phone, it had been five long years since my last bout of chairbound brutality. Five years. My teeth were last checked before I discovered facial hair, that a fringe wasn’t necessarily a good look for me, and I that my ‘hard-earned’ degree was, in fact, useless. Neglect doesn’t really cover it. If I’d been Facebook buddies with my teeth, they’d’ve stopped poking me a long time ago.
I went, then, cap in hand (pun almost intended) to throw myself at the mercy of my dentist, who I of course won’t name, despite the delicious irony of his moniker. We’ll call him Doctor McPain, for story’s sake. Dentists are like plumbers; their assessment of the work needed always reeks of ‘this wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t waited so long’. There’s always the tut, the sucking of saliva through teeth and the ominous warning that if you want it fixed properly, it’s going to cost you. Except instead of a dodgy thermostat, you have a blinding, rage-inducing pain in your gob. And unlike dicky heating, you can’t ignore that until winter sets in.
I was presented with two options – lose it, or throw money at it (not, unfortunately, money soaked in morphine) in the vain hope it could be saved. Yet while my rotten little peg of bone had seen me through many a Werther's Original, sentimentality was lost to me. Sentimentality, it seems, comes in short supply when you’re presented with a £450 bill for a porcelain replacement.
£450, you may well cry. I was forced to question: Who was making the bastard thing, Royal Dorchester?
Alas, me and my tooth decided to part ways. And like the best bitter divorces, it promised to be a long and drawn out process. 4-6 weeks on an NHS waiting list, to be precise.
They say that the rewards of being in a relationship are many and varied. Companionship, support, love, and, apparently, a mother-in-law that works in an emergency access dental clinic. Of all the manifold blessings received from The Other Half, a violent and gratefully sudden tooth extraction is up there with the best of them. And, aside from an excess of over-the-counter painkillers, the best pain relief is a surprise to trip to Toys R Us. Trust me; you’re never ever too old for some Indiana Jones Lego and a 2-litre bottle of fat Coke.
Having a grown man yank a molar out with little more than a glorified pair of pliers wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had, but, as with all life experience there are lessons to be learned; seek relationships with those who can benefit you directly, and save up all your grievances for when you’re in physical pain because, it turns out, no one is allowed to argue with you when your teeth hurt. Brilliant.
So, thanks to The Other Half and the mother-in-law, I’m now devoid of one tooth, a lot of pain and about 3 pounds (the antibiotic-enforced detox did wonders for me). But what was most surprising about the whole affair was the absence of any sense of loss. I thought I’d view losing a part of me a little differently, since as a mewling brat I mourned the loss of my milk teeth with equal force as I welcomed a fat pound coin from the tooth fairy. Perhaps it’s something to do with getting older – you lose your hair, and, somewhat more forcefully, your teeth, and you carry on regardless.
For about three seconds I briefly considered forking out for a shiny new porcelain molar. I thought I wanted the tooth. But, in the (now bastardised) immortal words of Jack Nicholson, I couldn’t handle the tooth... *groan*.
So when, last week, the world’s worst hangover™ was unwelcomely and unexpectedly teamed with the toothache to end all toothaches, I was perhaps ill equipped to cope.
I’ve never been a fan of my teeth. They’re bunched and disordered in that typically British way, more ivory than Cowell-brite and due to the excesses of my youth, littered with more fillings than I’d care to publicly admit on the interweb. The offending gnasher, victim of some crappy dentistry in my teenage years and neglected by graduate poverty, was the worst of a bad bunch, and, when the poor blighter was yanked ceremoniously from my gob, it would be fair to say we didn’t part on good terms.
Rattling with ibuprofen, I’d called my dentist and, like calling an old friend when you need a favour, we exchanged uncomfortable, loaded pleasantries. To my horror, and, no doubt, the horror of the immaculately-dentured girl on the end of the phone, it had been five long years since my last bout of chairbound brutality. Five years. My teeth were last checked before I discovered facial hair, that a fringe wasn’t necessarily a good look for me, and I that my ‘hard-earned’ degree was, in fact, useless. Neglect doesn’t really cover it. If I’d been Facebook buddies with my teeth, they’d’ve stopped poking me a long time ago.
I went, then, cap in hand (pun almost intended) to throw myself at the mercy of my dentist, who I of course won’t name, despite the delicious irony of his moniker. We’ll call him Doctor McPain, for story’s sake. Dentists are like plumbers; their assessment of the work needed always reeks of ‘this wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t waited so long’. There’s always the tut, the sucking of saliva through teeth and the ominous warning that if you want it fixed properly, it’s going to cost you. Except instead of a dodgy thermostat, you have a blinding, rage-inducing pain in your gob. And unlike dicky heating, you can’t ignore that until winter sets in.
I was presented with two options – lose it, or throw money at it (not, unfortunately, money soaked in morphine) in the vain hope it could be saved. Yet while my rotten little peg of bone had seen me through many a Werther's Original, sentimentality was lost to me. Sentimentality, it seems, comes in short supply when you’re presented with a £450 bill for a porcelain replacement.
£450, you may well cry. I was forced to question: Who was making the bastard thing, Royal Dorchester?
Alas, me and my tooth decided to part ways. And like the best bitter divorces, it promised to be a long and drawn out process. 4-6 weeks on an NHS waiting list, to be precise.
They say that the rewards of being in a relationship are many and varied. Companionship, support, love, and, apparently, a mother-in-law that works in an emergency access dental clinic. Of all the manifold blessings received from The Other Half, a violent and gratefully sudden tooth extraction is up there with the best of them. And, aside from an excess of over-the-counter painkillers, the best pain relief is a surprise to trip to Toys R Us. Trust me; you’re never ever too old for some Indiana Jones Lego and a 2-litre bottle of fat Coke.
Having a grown man yank a molar out with little more than a glorified pair of pliers wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had, but, as with all life experience there are lessons to be learned; seek relationships with those who can benefit you directly, and save up all your grievances for when you’re in physical pain because, it turns out, no one is allowed to argue with you when your teeth hurt. Brilliant.
So, thanks to The Other Half and the mother-in-law, I’m now devoid of one tooth, a lot of pain and about 3 pounds (the antibiotic-enforced detox did wonders for me). But what was most surprising about the whole affair was the absence of any sense of loss. I thought I’d view losing a part of me a little differently, since as a mewling brat I mourned the loss of my milk teeth with equal force as I welcomed a fat pound coin from the tooth fairy. Perhaps it’s something to do with getting older – you lose your hair, and, somewhat more forcefully, your teeth, and you carry on regardless.
For about three seconds I briefly considered forking out for a shiny new porcelain molar. I thought I wanted the tooth. But, in the (now bastardised) immortal words of Jack Nicholson, I couldn’t handle the tooth... *groan*.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment