Oh, no...

And it just has got worse.

Himself and I both woke up at 5.30am and he said, 'The crown's come out, and I must have swallowed it in my sleep.'

The dentist only put it back in yesterday....

And he said, 'I'll have to cancel the rehearsal. I can't play without the tooth.' (It's all to do with the embouchure, which I won't go into now but it's long and complicated, takes months to get the embouchure right in order to play.)

My mind started racing, thinking about what we could do. 'Ring the dentist,' I said. 'See if they can put it back in again.'

'They can't,' he said, his voice flat with weary disappointment. 'They have to order a bit of tooth from the dental technician before they can put it in.'

I foresaw weeks of no rehearsals. Of the gig in August being cancelled. Of Himself becoming not only bitterly disappointed, but deeply depressed. He lives for his jazz - having relinquished boating he needs another love in his life (apart from me and Moll of course).

'They'll have that on file,' I said. 'If you ask today perhaps they can get it for next week.' Anything to save missing another rehearsal.

So that's the plan. I could feel the heavy disappointment radiating from his body, but we will ring the dentist at 9am.

If they can't do anything soon, I have a Plan B. See if the fearfully expensive but very good private dentist I had to go do will be able to see him. It'll cost me, but it'll be worth it. And I know he'd do the same for me.

Paying for care

This morning I heard on our local news that Debbie Hirst, aged 56 from Carbis Bay, is being denied the breast cancer drug Avastin that could extend her life because it is not available on the NHS.

The news comes despite three cancer patients at Treliske already paying for Avastin privately. The reason, according to the government, is that guidelines have changed, meaning that co-payment (allowing patients to contribute towards NHS treatment) is against the values and principles of the NHS so it must be stopped.

Earlier this year our hygienist left our NHS dental surgery on maternity leave. Several months later I started having excruciating abscesses and toothache. I ended up having five teeth removed and was told that I’d lose the lot fairly soon because I had bad gums. I panicked. I’m not 50 (quite) and didn’t want to lose all my teeth just yet.

I asked my dentist if he could recommend a hygienist and was told that I’d have to move dentists to get to see a hygienist, but knowing what pain I’d been in, he said he’d refer me to a private periodontist. ‘But it’ll cost you,’ he said.

I was desperate. I said yes.

It cost me a horrific amount of money which I’m still paying for on HP, but nine months on my gums are so much better, I have had no more teeth out and if I continue looking after them, I should keep all the teeth I have.

Now that my NHS dentist has another hygienist and I have finished with the private treatment, I will go back on the NHS.

A two tier system I would say.

The other instance was more recently with my gynae problems. Here again I was desperate, but was able to see a specialist once, privately and quickly, but continue to see her on the NHS.

That saved me six weeks of what would have been agony. I got a leg up the ladder. I was very fortunate that I was able to pay the necessary amount to go privately (and recoup the money in words!).

And yet the government say we can’t have a two tier health system.

In the same breath, I hear that it’s perfectly possible for people unable to get treatment over here to be treated in Europe. And claim the cost back from their NHS Trust.

Excuse me. If that isn’t two tier, what is?

A Royal Award

Another award - from Akelamalu. Thank you so much, Ak. Very cheering, particularly as I have to go to the dentist in an hour or so for a splint to be put in. No, I've never had a splint before, either, but it's to save one of my teeth rather than having it hoiked out (had rather a lot of that recently). Still, at least my dentist is very good looking and has a sense of humour, so I shall try and concentrate on him rather than what he's doing to my mouth (if you get my drift).

Also, the other day I started getting pains up my arm and wrist which I think means RSI. Occupational hazard for a writer, but not pleasant, so I'm off to see the physio tomorrow who sounds very competent and knows all about RSI. Thank God for that - I can't afford to fall apart!

Absent Friends

Doom and gloom here in rainy Cornwall. Husband’s appointment to have his tooth fixed so that he can play the trumpet properly has been cancelled as our dentist is ill. Tooth can’t be fixed till Tuesday. This is Bad News for someone who’s waited two months to have it fixed; he’s itching to start playing again so that he can sit in with other bands. TLC has been administered in large doses and he has departed, slightly (but only slightly) mollified.

During a long, hot flushed night, I started thinking about a friend I met over 20 years ago in hospital. (I know where to meet people.) She’d just tried to commit suicide following the breakup of her first marriage and was talking to no one, but I must have sensed some kinship there as I said, ‘do you like cats?’ We’re talking high social skills here.
‘Yes,’ she replied. And so a friendship was born.

Sandra had trained as a nurse, then decided that she wanted to become a pilot. In order to get cheap flying lessons she had to belong to London Transport, so she took her LGV licence and became a bus driver. It wasn’t a job that she enjoyed much, and on one occasion she left the bus in the middle of the Kings Road, to the outrage of her passengers.

Still, she achieved her purpose, which was to get her Private Pilots Licence, and she then went on to get her commercial licence, and gained flying experience in such places as Papua New Guinea. This meant that her darling cat Cyd moved in with me. Initially the arrangement was for six months but as Sandra didn’t reappear for 18 months, by that time Cyd had decided she was going to stay with me and Sandra could bugger off. We had a very soulful evening discussing adoption rights.

Eventually Sandra got a job with an international airline that shall remain nameless where she got the sack. She sued them for unfair dismissal and sexual discrimination and a massive rumpus followed, court cases were flung across the globe and Sandra and her family were dogged by reporters camped out on doorsteps. Eventually they agreed to settle out of court and Sandra disappeared to America.

Being an extremely attractive woman, she was never short of admirers, but some were dodgy, to put it politely. At one point she was seeing a man in Scotland who had offered to set her up in business, had Bentleys etc., always took her to the smartest restaurants – but always declined to meet me. I saw her off at Kings Cross one lunch hour when she travelled up to Scotland to beard him in his den (she had a sniff that Something was Up) and found that he had a wife and children up there. The moral of this story, never trust a man who won’t meet your best mate.

Months – sometimes years - would go by without me seeing her, then she would ring and we’d meet up, pick up the pieces as if she’d never been away. At some point while her court case was going on, she met a lovely man in America, and they eventually married. She was determined that I go and stay with them in Florida (he worked at NASA) and rang me at work, insisting that I go for a specific date.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Because it’s the shuttle launch,’ she said casually.
Well, I had to go for that, didn’t I?

That was the last time I saw her. We kept in touch for a while but she wanted me to move out there, and I wasn’t keen on the idea. When Cyd died I sent her a postcard, and she rang up one day, from London. She was studying for more exams, she said, but I must have sounded a bit lacklustre: I had bronchitis and was feeling terrible. She never rang again.

I tried on several occasions to get in touch, by phone and letter. I even rang her Mum and asked her to pass on the message. But I never heard from Sandra again.

The other day I was sorting out my desk when I found a beermat from one birthday of mine. On it she wrote, ‘Very many Happy Returns to my Best Mate always. Lots of love Sandra.’

So what went wrong?

Are there any male hygienists?

Since their rigorous cleaning, teeth are looking and feeling squeaky clean, to the extent that if I don't clean them after a meal, I start visualising all these Germs running round my teeth, skating and skidding on such pristine surfaces, like polished floors. 'Weee!!' they cry, 'what fun!' then freeze as they hear a horrible buzzing noise. 'What's that? Could it be -? oh, no - not the Electric Toothbrush,' and they fall over themselves in an attempt to flee the instrument of torture.
For the first time in ages, I feel able to smile with my mouth open, confident that while my teeth are still wonky, at least they're sparkling and wonky. Recently when talking to people, I've been sizing people's teeth up before I decide whether to reveal my fangs or not. If people have perfect teeth, I keep my mouth firmly shut and slope off. If their teeth are less than perfect, I sigh with relief and relax. Last week I was talking to another dog owner and couldn't take my eyes off her teeth. Crooked wasn't the word - these were like crazy paving. Which at least made me realise that I haven't got the worst teeth in the world.
Do you know of any male hygienists? A friend posted this comment yesterday, and it got me thinking - why aren't men drawn to this profession? Are there any male hygienists out there? This friend - who has just enrolled with the same dentist - had a great name for our hygienist - the Gum Matron. As I feel like a naughty schoolchild, this is extremely apt. I shall now sign off and go and use my mouthwash. Matron said I must.

The Tooth Torturer

I've survived both sessions of root cleaning my teeth which has eaten into my working day somewhat. But the main thing was, wimp that I am, it didn't hurt. The second lot of numbness has worn off and still no pain, though as I said to Himself, 'my mouth feels as if it's been scrubbed with a wire brush.'
'It has,' he said.

What do you think about while you're at the dentist? Do you shiver in apprehension and fear as he/she looms above you with a wopping great needle while you're strapped into the chair of torture, powerless to escape? Do you stare upwards, planning the week's shop? Wonder about a tricky bit of plot/how to cope with mother in law/problematic meeting later that day?

I started wondering a) whether she could tell from my teeth that I'd been a heavy smoker (I gave up 11 years ago, thankfully); b) what she could tell about my general state of health from my mouth and c) why on earth she wanted to spend all day looking in people's mouths.

I then wondered which was worse, spending all day treating gum disease or being a urologist and inspecting people's backsides. I think I'd rather do the former, but I did ask her why she was a hygienist. She looked vulnerable, suddenly, and said that she'd always been interested in teeth and that she hadn't wanted to be a dentist as she didn't want to make dentures and extract teeth. 'Besides, nowadays a hygienist have a much greater role,' she said. 'We can do crowns, temporary fillings, all that sort of thing.'
I couldn't quite share her enthusiasm, but said, 'so what's left for the dentists?'
She made a face and said, 'exactly,' which I found rather worrying.
But my job's very rewarding,' she said. 'Every patient has different problems, but it's wonderful to see them improve - like you.' And her face shone.
Each to their own, I dare say. I think I'll stick with words, though. I can't see the fascination in teeth, no matter how hard I try.

A medical week

Tomorrow himself has his next cancer checkup, an event usually awaited with a certain amount of trepidation, for the results. This time, however, his condition has been stable for months so unless something has changed drastically, he should be all right. Still, there is always that margin of error ready to trip us up..... The consultant is short and very portly, like a balloon - so much so that I'm tempted to shove a needle in him to see if he'd deflate. He squints from behind very thick glasses that make you wonder how he can see at all without them (he probably can't). He obviously hates women, or considers them too lowly to be bothered with, as in the two years we've been seeing him, he has never once looked at me, let alone address a comment to me.
Mind you, come to think of it, he doesn't look at himself either - not sure what that says about either of them.
Following on from that appointment, we head back here and I have the first of two sessions (each an hour and a half long) to clean the roots of my teeth. For those of you that haven't followed this saga, I have had months of excruciating toothache leading to my paying a private periodontist (someone who specialises in gum disease) extortionate amounts of money in order to try and save my teeth. I'm trying hard not to think about this root cleaning business and have so far pushed it to the side of my brain where it lingers dangerously, like a hangover ready to pounce. I comfort myself with the fact that it is done under local anaesthetic (thank God), but even so, it's not something that I look forward to, and I rather suspect that once the numbness wears off, it will hurt like hell. Wimp, moi?
The only comfort I get from the prospect of all this is that it only has to be done once - well, with two appointments to do one side of the mouth each time. Then, Never Again.
In the meantime, outside the sky is a gentle blue, a sparrow is doing a jitterbug on the overhanging fuchsia tree, and I have a vase of sweet peas on my desk that smell like a promise.