I popped into the dentist for a quick root canal this morning. And was in the chair for TWO AND A HALF HOURS.
If you need a lesson for your kids to get them to brush their teeth, let this be it. I have been left traumatised, abused, and depressed. And my mouth is still so sore, 8 hours after the event, that I can hardly force my wine down. Exactly. It is BAD.
(Photo credit Little Shop of Horrors)
Just like I’m not a great fan of birth stories online (sorry guys, but I really don’t need to read about your gushing fluids, ruptured placentas, or unavoidable pooing incidents), nor do I think sharing the ins and outs of tortuous dental surgery should ever be encouraged.
So I’ll keep it brief. And just tell you the gross bits.
Tooth broke: 10 December. Like actually broke in half and fell out. In the middle of my office Christmas party. Just before I had to MC an awards evening in front of 60 people. (Of course! Because that’s how life rolls with Alpine Mummy.) Not knowing what to do with said tooth, and having a bit of a panic about giving a speech with a gaping hole in my jaw, I randomly gave it to Alpine Papa to put in his pocket. I know, weird. Don’t ask. And thinking about it, that’s probably what’s broken the washing machine…
First dentist appointment available: 19 January. First time they can actually do what they need to: today. So basically I’ve spent the last month and a half with half a tooth missing.
And so today was the day. I went in shaking like an electric toothbrush, white as a molar (not one of my own, admittedly), and conscious that I had my native pride rotting away between my jaws. Just as my doctor tells her dinner party guests how hilarious the English are with their unfathomable aversion to sticking random pointy capsules up their backsides, my dentist is no doubt currently telling this evening’s book club/yoga class/Sadists Anonymous meeting all about what crap teeth my birth nation has.
And it was awful. Not all the time, to be sure, and in fact at some point I even starting drifting off to sleep (note to self: really must sort out sleep-deprivation issue. Falling asleep in the dentist chair probably scores pretty highly on the ‘Are You Sleep Deprived?’ test).
But when I was actually awake there was drilling to rival Bob the Builder’s little mate; there was unstoppable bleeding which the dentist had to call her boss in to deal with; and there were so many emergency head x-rays to try and work out what the hell was going on deep within my skull that I’m pretty sure my eyeballs are going to glow in the dark tonight. There was also a lot of panic and near-crying, but that was from the dentist, not me, so I won’t go into that.
My face looks and feels like I’ve been repeatedly punched in the cheek (maybe that’s what the dentist was actually doing while I was having a snooze), and the hot whisky with cloves lovingly prepared by Alpine Papa has done nothing to take the edge off my pain (or my grumpiness). I rocked up at work five hours late, and rocked off home again an hour early, much to the delight of my colleagues, I suspect, who were getting rather bored with my wailing.
So that’s it folks, moan over. Brush your teeth like your mothers told you. Or you’ll end up 300 euros worse off, with nothing to show for it but half a hamster-face, enough traumatic nightmares to make any sleep-deprivation issue entirely unsolvable, and a sniggering yet slightly scared dentist who has enough anecdotes about crap English teeth to make her the most popular guest at this year’s Annual Dental Awards Ceremony.
Now please pass the chocolate.