THERE’S nothing like a bit of toothache to get you down in the mouth. And the thought of going to the dentist is hardly a consolation – rather it just adds to your woes. Indeed, the only thing worse than toothache is a trip to the dentist. It’s not the dentist’s fault; it’s just the nature of the beast.
Unfortunately, opening wide to let needles, drills and other sharp things inside is, by nature, a beastly business.
To be fair, most dentists I have encountered are kind, gentle, lovely people – heroic even: the saviours and protectors of oral health against the evils of toffee and gum disease. Their one-way chat can be a bit dull, but who can blame them when their victims . . . ahem, patients can’t answer back – and wouldn’t dare even if they could. Dentists may be loathed by many, but only a fool would get on the wrong side of one.
On Tuesday I felt like I’d been on the wrong side of my new dentist, and wondered what I might have done to offend him. When the anaesthetic wore off and the pain set in (for 24 throbbing hours) I wondered if I’d developed halitosis (from the tooth rot, or the mackerel I’d eaten the night before), or if I’d accidentally spat on his nice clean floor (after gargling with the pink stuff of course – I’m not that averse to dentists), or if I’d even looked at him funny.
Later I remembered that I’d foolishly missed my last appointment, which probably meant I wasn’t in his good books. But still, I guessed my pain was not the result of some sadistic act of satanic dentistry. At least it seemed that way, seeing as they booked me straight in for the next available appointment as soon as I called back in agony.
Maybe they’re just trying to bleed me dry – of money, that is. I suppose I’ll find out when I get my bill.
The root of this toothy problem is a cavity that grew from a raspberry jam seed, which lodged itself inextricably into my tooth about six months ago (or a year, I lose track). During this time, said tooth has swiftly eroded into a miniature dental version of Grand Canyon. Yup, that’s one holey molar back there and it’s been giving me gip for weeks. To begin with it was an occasional twinge and a general dull nag. Then it gradually got worse, and a bit cracked off, and by this week I felt like I’d been Marathon Man’d (those who’ve seen the movie will know what I mean).
Fortunately I was due for a filling on Tuesday, which I thought would kill the pain, so going to the dentist was actually a slight consolation for a change. I don’t relish the thought of a dentist appointment any more than the next lass, but I’m no dentophobe, and if I think there will be more gain than pain, it doesn’t really bother me that much.
However, this time I was almost looking forward to it. I believed this filling would be a quick fix – after all, there was no abcess, no shoogling, no wisdom in the tooth; no need to yank the beggar out.
If it means anything at all to you, it took three amalgams to pack the hole, and two gum-numbing injections, so it was a big job for one tooth. If I thought I’d been down in the mouth before I went to the dentist, I looked like the elephant woman afterwards. My cheek swole up like a breast implant, and I couldn’t move my lips or feel the right side of my gums for the rest of the morning.
It took the rest of the afternoon for agony to take hold. Hot things, cold things and even air swirling round my mouth made lightening strike right through me. I started to picture myself in one of those sensitive toothpaste ads where the bolt of lightning flashes through the screen alongside some poor sod eating ice cream and clutching their not-so-swollen cheek – only I was using more colourful language, and more operatic sound effects, and had a cheek like Dolly Parton’s right bosom.
Before 5pm I called up my new dentist’s surgery and sheepishly (on account of remembering that missed appointment) asked whether my pain was normal, and would it go away before I felt the need to eat my own face. When asked to describe my pain, the obvious pain in my voice, plus the fact that hot things, cold things, and tepid air were hurting my tooth, prompted the receptionist to book me the first appointment in the morning.
Thence followed a sleepless night of untold groaning, writhing and moaning – which sounds quite exciting, if it weren’t for the fact that it was toothache and not some handsome young thing keeping me awake. Besides the pain, I was anxious about a voice recording I was booked in to do the following afternoon. If my mouth wasn’t going to be match fit, I’d have to postpone or cancel.
I was dreading going back to the dentist. I just couldn’t see how the holey molar could be fixed. First he injected me, and then again – why I always need two injections I have no idea. He took the filling out and put some clove oil in the cavity to calm the nerve – heavenly stuff. He then packed the cavity with some temporary gum, which didn’t hurt or screech or grind at all – much to my relief. My face was pumped up again afterwards and I felt hellish tired and groggy after a sleepless night.
Although my pain was miraculously soothed, I still didn’t feel up to the voice session in the afternoon. However, after few hours kip, a shower, a bit of ‘Peter Piper’ and a warm-up, I felt better again and managed to bag the session without lisping, slurring or giving too much cheek.
Of course the holey molar will need filled again, and I’ll be billed again. Let’s hope I’ve more to gain than pain.