A beautiful autumn sunny day, my husband and daughter at my side; we saunter passed a frozen yoghurt store and decide to treat ourselves. I cannot remember what they ordered. I was far too busy with my own, chocolate brownie and vanilla fudge masterpiece.
This desert was a thing of beauty. I imagined I looked as elegant, as those women, from the 1980s Cadbury flake advert as I indulged in a guilt free calorific brownie bonanza. In truth, I was sat in the middle of a shopping centre, inhaling this bad boy, while waiting for the cleaning crew to arrive as my daughter had dropped her desert on the floor! Perhaps elegant was a stretch…
In my haste, I felt an all too familiar feeling in my mouth. The fudge had taken one my fillings for a ride. I had a moment of panic. Was immense pain imminent? Thankfully no. I knew what had happened but my tongue couldn’t resist the morbid fascination, to check out the crater that had been left behind. This was the king of fillings. A lower right six molar to be precise.
Me and this lower right molar knew each other real well. This tooth first started to crumble in secondary school. I had actually left school and was at my first office job, before I finally did anything about it. I was, like so many others, afraid of the dentist. I was now 17 years old, being sedated in the chair and hoping for the best. The best is what I got. I came round to a completely re built and filled tooth and all other work (2 further fillings) completed. The dentist knew I wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon so made sure I left with a clean slate.
It was another 6 or 7 years, before this tooth needed another filling, in my 20s and again in my 30s. Each time I went and had the work done like a champ. There were tears, worry induced vomit, sleepless nights and panic attacks but I knew that I just had to get through it
Last month was already testing my strength so when this filling decided to make a break for it too, I was already a little strung out. I believe my inner monologue declared, ‘Well ain’t that a bitch!’. My thoughts are usually far more articulate but hey, September had a mood and that word represented it well.
That week I had already been researching dentists; my entire family, needed to get on a list for a local clinic. We have lived in our current home for 3 years and have only just decided to investigate moving practices. With zero NHS places available, private treatment was the only option left. I had already found the dentist I wanted. My research had led me to a practice just 2 miles away. A little pricey but the reviews and testimonials from patients were too good to ignore. The time for fannying about was over. I needed help asap and within 24 hours I was in the chair.
Faultless, professional and just generally lovely. It’s been 8 weeks since that first visit. Since then, my daughter has been checked, my husband has had 3 fillings and a referral for a hospital extraction, for impacted wisdom teeth. As for me, my lower right molar, needed the mother of all dental treatments – the root canal. The horror stories, friends previous experiences, even Finding Nemo; did not paint a wonderful picture of this procedure.
The treatment began with 2 one-hour sessions in the chair, being drilled and scraped, within an inch of my life. Nerves and tooth pulp were removed, the inside of the tooth cleaned with antiseptic fluid then filled. If it sounds grim then my writing is completely accurate. Dealing with a live tooth, in such an invasive manner, is no joke. Lots of injections. No feeling in my face for hours after. Drinking through a straw and generally feeling very sorry for myself, was par for the course. Having to have a rubber dam in your mouth, while the world and his entourage, are rattling about in your face, is not pleasant. The only thing I could hear was the drill and my own heartbeat. The usual protective eyewear was not suitable for me. With all the fluorescent lights and my dentists own head lamp, the brightness was far too much, for my already knackered retinas so on went the Ray Bans. To a stranger, I probably look like a pretentious twat but for me, the shades are necessary. It’s hard to look cool, when you can’t feel your face and enunciate like a drunk! Between each appointment, there was a 2 week period of recovery. The roots have been cleaned out and filled, I now need a crown made and fitted. This is to be placed on top of my poor battered tooth, to safeguard against further damage. Once a tooth has had a root canal, it is more brittle so the crown is vital.
Two more appointments are required for the crown. I’m going for a Zirconia model, which is white in appearance and the strongest of all the crowns available. Last week, all the preparation work was carried out. More drilling and filling. Moulds were taken to enable the technician, to create a bespoke little number just for me. Next week is my last appointment. Praise the Lord. It’s been brutal.
I can’t help but reflect that all this mess was because I didn’t go to the dentist, when I should have done all those years ago. I can’t change that but I also can’t escape the fact that my fear, went on to repeatedly bite me in the ass, for the following two decades!
My Ray Bans incidentally are awful. They are wrap around shades, which is great but my prescription buckles under the strain of that curve. I get the sun protection at a price of distorted vision. Yay!
To the folk in the waiting room, I am the Diva in shades, that doesn’t smile at the riff raff when exiting the dentist. In reality, I can’t see properly out of these overpriced designer disasters and I am smiling on the inside as I can’t actually feel my face!
I am the Slow Jams Genius and I survived a root canal!