I’ve never really had a good relationship with my teeth. Or rather, I’ve never really had an OK time at the dentist – not since The Incident back in 1971 at the hands of my mother and Mr E. This year, the top right corner of my mouth has been the recipient of some unfortunate dental activity – activity that triggered some terribly bad memories.
Let me explain.
At the tender age of 10, to my shame, I’d already had a couple of small fillings, but on one particularly dark day Mr E concluded that I would need a bigger one. He recommended to my mother (whose attendance was less about supporting her daughter and more about seeing the handsome local dentist in action) that I have an injection to numb my tooth.
OK. That course of action seemed unpleasant to me, but certainly the lesser of two evils.
Unfortunately though, the first anaesthetic didn’t work, so after what Mr E advised was an appropriate amount of time, he gave me another jab and sent me to the waiting room for the numbness to kick in.
Twenty minutes later, nothing. No effect. Diddly squat.
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I’ve never really had a good relationship with my teeth. Or rather, I’ve never really had an OK time at the dentist – not since The Incident back in 1971 at the hands of my mother and Mr E. This year, the top right corner of my mouth has been the recipient of some unfortunate dental activity – activity that triggered some terribly bad memories.
Let me explain.
At the tender age of 10, to my shame, I’d already had a couple of small fillings, but on one particularly dark day Mr E concluded that I would need a bigger one. He recommended to my mother (whose attendance was less about supporting her daughter and more about seeing the handsome local dentist in action) that I have an injection to numb my tooth.
OK. That course of action seemed unpleasant to me, but certainly the lesser of two evils.
Unfortunately though, the first anaesthetic didn’t work, so after what Mr E advised was an appropriate amount of time, he gave me another jab and sent me to the waiting room for the numbness to kick in.
Twenty minutes later, nothing. No effect. Diddly squat.
Mr E recommended to my mother (whose attendance was less about supporting her daughter and more about seeing the handsome local dentist in action) that I have an injection to numb my tooth.
“Ok, come back in, Carrot Top,” he said cheerily, referring to my very ginger hair. Mr E was very charming, and my mother was looking at him and twirling her hair around her finger a lot. He held the white door open to his white room, his nice, straight set of white teeth formed a handsome smile to lure me in. At this point my mother and Mr E had – unbeknown to me – decided that I was lying to get out of having a filling, and had agreed to proceed with the procedure, regardless. His charm had lulled me into a false sense of security and as soon as he’d closed the door on the patients in the waiting room, BAM! The dashing Mr E had turned into Freddy Krueger, drill in hand.
Thirty seconds in, Freddy Krueger hit the nerve and I hit the roof. A nurse held my head still, my mother performed a handcuffing manoeuvre, and Freddy’s knee strapped itself across my legs, while each of these grown-ups ignored my screams.
On a mission, Freddy proceeded to get the job done. I, on the other hand, proceeded to thrash around like a caged animal, howling and squealing. What a scene it must have been.
Now, I feel it necessary to mention at this point that my mother was a very attractive woman. She did not have the ginger gene. She loved to party, she loved to be the centre of attention, especially if that attention was from men and yes, the aforementioned Mr E was indeed a man.
On that fateful day back in 1971, she was very much the centre of attention but – unfortunately for her – not in a good way. On our exit, she received a great deal of head turning from the punters in the waiting room who’d heard the commotion from her out-of-control child. Furious with the embarrassment of having reared such an unruly daughter, I was dragged around the corner to her friend’s house and given a jolly good hiding in their front room. As I lay sobbing and she drank a nice cup of tea in their back room, I hoped her hand hurt as much as my bottom.
Freddy Krueger hit the nerve and I hit the roof. A nurse held my head still, my mother performed a handcuffing manoeuvre, and Freddy’s knee strapped itself across my legs, while each of these grown-ups ignored my screams.
Anyway, I digress, back to the present day and the unfortunate state of my top right canine. Since the beginning of time, my top right canine has been a lazy little beast – it just never pushed its way through. Instead, it remains horizontal in my gum and in its place is a baby tooth. That’s right: a 60-year old milk tooth still hanging in there with the big boys six decades after he first appeared.
This year, my heroic little milk tooth worked himself very loose and his days are now numbered. I’m fearful of finding him embedded in a pork pie. Am I a single sneeze away from looking like Shane Macgowen? And once he’s gone – which is only a matter of time – do I embrace my gap as Shane did for a while? Or, do I sell a kidney to pay for a shiny new one, and hope to high heaven that anaesthetics got better and dentists got kinder?
At the time of writing, I am pleased to report that my tooth is still hanging on in there and a trip to a tooth torturer has not been necessary... yet. But the anxiety that comes with the inevitability is huge.
This is the first one!
Published tomorrow!