The Tooth Fairy

We're off early tomorrow morning to do an interview in Callington (well, I'm doing that bit while I dare say Himself will sneak off to the pub) and then go on to spend the weekend with my mum. So I thought I'd leave you with this in my absence.

This is for anyone who, like me, hates the dentist...

My dentist is like a younger George Clooney. Yet despite his looks, I’ve always been terrified of having my mouth examined. Teeth can be the source of so much pain that when faced with a dental appointment, my stomach plummets and my pulse thuds like a drum beat. The high pitched squeal of the drill makes me want to flee the building.

Last year I developed an abscess the week before my birthday. It hurt too much to chew, so my celebratory meal was cancelled and I was reduced to baby food and fluids.

Three days before my birthday, I had to see The Lovely One as the antibiotics I’d taken hadn’t worked. He prescribed me some that said in large letters, AVOID ALCOHOL. I saw my birthday becoming a very sedate affair. No food, no drink, work, walking our hyperactive dog. Great. But womanfully I chucked these horse pills down my throat hoping they would cure my throbbing jaw.

Two days before my birthday I was at my computer when I started feeling rather light headed. More so than usual. Concentration proved a little difficult, and as the morning progressed I started feeling swimmy. Not in a watery way, you understand, but in a drunk kind of way. I tried to get up from my computer and realised that I couldn’t focus very well. Was it the cheap glasses that I’d bought online? I felt floaty and other worldly, bringing back distant memories of first experiments with cider.

I struggled to get up and lurched down the corridor like a drunken sailor. My husband looked alarmed and suggested that I ring the dentist. I giggled.

‘Er – don’t go away. Hold on,’ said the receptionist, and her voice shook a little.
A minute later she came back on the line and said, ‘The dentist says to stop taking those antibiotics NOW. If you come in, he’ll leave a prescription for something else.’
‘OK,’ I grinned. ‘This means I can have a drink for my birthday!’ I said to Himself - a fact that suddenly seemed hilarious.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ was the disappointing reply.

By my birthday itself, the effects of those drugs receded and my feet reconnected with the carpet but my toothache returned with vengeance. I felt as if I had flu, spent the day in bed, and several days later the Lovely One removed the offending tooth.

Looking in the mirror, I saw gaps everywhere. From then on, all I could think about was teeth. When I talked to people I started surreptitiously inspecting their mouths. If they had pearly perfects, I would mutter through a closed mouth, tricky if you want to be understood. If they had crooked teeth, or ones missing, I felt able to open my mouth a fraction and give a reasonably intelligible response.

A few weeks later I was talking to a friend who also goes to the Lovely One and she told me that she’d lost all her teeth before she was 50. I froze in horror. I was 49. Back in the Lovely One’s chair, I demanded action.
“I can refer you,” he said. “But it’ll cost.”
I didn’t care. I was desperate.

So a week later saw me enter the hallowed portals of private dentistry. In a glass fronted building overlooking the river, I was greeted by a receptionist who spoke in muted tones. The lighting was dimmed, like a health spa, and I sank into the plush armchair and looked around. Copies of that day’s Times and various glossy magazines lay on pale pine coffee tables. No dog eared copies of Hello magazine here. Classic FM drifted from invisible speakers; no child dared scream in this room.

At my first hour long consultation, my gums were severely scrutinised and I learnt that severe gum disease leads to periodontal disease, the main cause of tooth loss in adults. I was given an estimate of what it would cost to halt my periodontal disease and my remaining teeth nearly fell out in shock. How much? But I went back. I had to feel the fear and return to this dentist or lose yet more teeth.

It took ten sessions and ten massive monthly repayments to get my gums under control. Ten sessions where I subjected myself to gum interrogations. Ten sessions where the smile from the receptionist faded as she noticed my mud spattered, dogwalking jeans. But a year later, after endless hours of brushing and flossing my teeth, I’m pain free and my gums are vastly improved.

After ten months of intensive, painless treatment I’ve realised I’ve faced the worst, so there’s nothing to be frightened of. Now I waltz into the dentist’s surgery with barely a tremor.

So I didn't plan any birthday festivities this year. Just in case.