So at what point, after having horrendously had your tooth pulled out of head, do you stop the world and tell anyone who’ll listen, that you want to get off? Just for a bit?
It started with a tooth ache. Scratch that, it started with a broken tooth. Over 4 years ago. I was pregnant with Jack. And get this, I broke my back tooth by eating a freaking soft snake lolly. See kids, lollies DO rot your teeth. One minute I was enjoying my sunshiny orange snake, the next I was hoeing down on my own tooth particles. Ewwww.
To be honest, I have always been shite at going to the Dentist. This is not through fear or money worries particularly, just pure, unadulterated, laziness. My mother made me go religiously to the dentist while I was under her direction. But like any good teenager, I promptly stopped doing anything I was “made to do” the minute I left home. And then, well, I only went when I had a problem. BIG MISTAKE.
I write this today as a cautionary tale, because if I can save one person from going through what I did on the weekend, someone should award me an Order of Australia Medal, for I have helped my nation.
So, after chewing my own bone, I made an emergency appointment with a dentist around the corner. He was reluctant, with me being pregnant and all, to do much at all. Half my tooth had disintegrated, yet I was stoked he wanted me to get out of his face for 6 more months. Ideally, I was meant to return within 1 month of giving birth. Jack is now 3 and a half.
Last year I had a little trouble with my half in, half out wisdom teeth. To be precise, one got infected. Ah, the memories. A Russian dentist telling me I was basically fucked and would have to visit a specialist who wouldn’t be available for over 7 months and oh, whilst you’re here, how about I make you feel like a complete and utter rabid human being for getting yourself into this predicament in the first place.
Hey look man, I work in a job where we see people sometimes fob off doing their tax returns for 20 years. You know what? We just do them and lodge them. Because it is not our job to judge them. Who knows what the hell has gone in their lives to get them to this point. So Hey, Mr Stalin the dentist, lay off, I’m the only one in pain here buddy, no need to get all shouty.
So, back to the original story, oh yes, the broken back tooth. Last week, I started to get a tooth ache. OK, no need to panic I thought, perhaps it’s just a fleeting problem. Fixed with a good dose of barley, wheat, hops and a long lie down. Nope. I would drink a coffee and it would feel like I had sucked a pin directly into the core of my teeth. Equally as painful were cold drinks. Oh shit.
So luckily I got into a dentist on a Saturday. I trotted off, without any children in tow and told my husband I would go do the grocery shopping after my dentist appointment. Little did I know I was about to feature in my own version of Saw 3.
Immediately my lovely, young dentist started making what can only be described as clucking noises. Then he said, “Hmm, we will need an x-ray to see how bad this hole is. If it’s not fillable, then, well a root canal is an option or we might have to pull it”. Me, full of bravado, “Just pull it out, no one can see it”. Stupid, stupid me.
To be totally honest, I would be open to going through childbirth again before having another tooth pulled. It took just over 20 minutes. That’s twenty minutes, even with anaesthetic where I could feel every nerve tear, hear every bone crack and taste every drop of blood entering my throat. And he just could. not. get. the. fucker. out. Oh and apparently according to the dentist, it wanted to come out backwards. No Mr Dentist, it is an inanimate object, don’t tell me what it’s thinking, just get it the feck out of my mouth.
He ran out of options. My wisdom tooth was blocking it’s way apparently. That would be right. So he told me he was leaving to go and get the big guns. Some more tools. I had my eyes shut and arms in standard brace position, so I didn’t see these extra special tools, but I reckon it was just a pair of pliers.
Suddenly, he was done. He asked if I wanted to see the offending tooth. Me: “No thanks” He showed me anyway, quite chuffed he got such a gnarly tooth out of my head. I paid the squillion dollars, they loaded me up with 4 packs of gauzes and some advice to get some “hardcore pain relief” stat.
Still undeterred and I’m pretty sure, in shock, I went and did my grocery shopping. Starting to feel a bit woozy, I secured some Panadeine fort and got moving. About half an hour from home, I realised my final guaze was soaked through. Blood ahoy so to speak.
With no chemist in sight, I rifled through my handbag , praying for some tissues or baby wipes, anything to get me home. Zilch. What, I can somehow house an electric pencil sharpener and a Kinder Surprise in my handbag, but no fucking tissues? Then I spotted it. A tampon. Look, I fully accept responsibility if you choose to turn away now. I would. But I had no choice. My mouth was like a blood geyser . I opened one up and shoved it in and bit down. Hard. The only thing that could be worse right now would be if I was pulled over by a policeman. I can just imagine him on his radio back to the station. “Yep, bringing in a tampon munching, Panadiene Forte popping lunatic, have the shrink on standby”.
Clearly I didn’t think this through. Tampons expand with liquid. You get the visual.
Right. I think I’ve sufficiently humiliated myself.
If you never want end up like me, go to the Dentist – REGULARLY.