Ouch OUCH

Ouch bloody ouch! My teeth are giving me hell. First they went all hyper-sensitive and I had to start using Sensodyne or squirm every time I ate, now I've got a dying nerve that wants to take me down with it.

I'm due to see the dentist on Thursday to get it devitalised. Fun. I'm living off Codoliprane, anti-inflammatories and anti-biotics at the moment. They are the ones keeping me upright.

Dentists cost an arm and a leg here as well as in the UK. A girl I know says she's at present going out to work to pay for her teeth. She needs €8K worth and puts it down to having a lousy dentist when she was young and then not being able to pay for the best treatments later.

The Mutuelle insurance companies don't reimburse too much so good treatment is reserved for those who can afford it. Seeing as a lot of health problems can arise from bad teeth, it seems strange that so little attention is paid to ensuring the nation has affordable treatment.

When I was young, I used to go for fluoride sessions at the dentist. I'd sit in the chair with a plastic tooth cover filled with paste and have to wait what seemed like hours but I think was about 15minutes for it to do its stuff. Did it work? I'm not sure. It didn't stop me having fillings, that I do know.

When I went to do a post-grad diploma in Bristol in 1993, I was amazed that none of the young students had fillings. They had become a thing of the past. Is that because of adding fluoride to toothpaste? What a great invention!

At my age, all the talk is of crowns. How many crowns do you need/have? At €700 a go, you start not going on holiday so the dentist can enjoy his.

I like my dentist but he hasn't been consistent with friends who've gone to consult him. To the point they won't go back because of treatment that hasn't quite worked. That's the case with my lawyer too. She's fine with me, and says she has my case à coeur (my ex is a case...!), but was awful with a friend I sent.

Makes you think twice about recommending people really which is a shame, cos I love to share the joy...

Squeamishly Brave

I'm feeling really brave today, and pretty squeamish too, which is taking quite a toll on my nerves and my one desire right now is to have a snooze. Unfortunately, it's only Friday and my next snooze-in opportunity isn't until tomorrow morning.

Why brave? Well, I have stopped wearing the plastic protection on my upper mouth which means the graft zone is open to being accidently touched by my tongue. I had the gum graft a week last Monday and have been faithfully wearing it at all times. However, I went to have the stitches out on Wednesday and my dentist told me I should only wear it at mealtimes, to speed up healing.

The squirm factor on this is pretty high, but had been off the chart until I took a mirror and actually had a look to see where the graft zone was. Luckily (and intentionally, I'm sure), it's over on the right hand side so my tongue goes nowhere near it when I swallow or when I talk. However, just to be on the safe side, I'm developing a new technique where I swallow with my tongue to the left and talk with as little tongue use as possible.

If successful, I'll write an article and publish my findings in Nature...

I was most apprehensive about having the stitches out. The last time I had mouth stitches out was when I was a student and trigger-happy dentist removed my wisdom teeth. He seemed to have a reputation for doing this whether really necessary or not. I suppose it was a good little earner... Anyway, he did it with general anaesthetic in the surgery (not sure if that's allowed now), and I went back some time later for the stitches. For some reason he didn't snip them with scissors, he cut them with a bistouri, but the damn blade wasn't sharp and he had to keep hacking away until he got through.

It was so painful I nearly fainted, literally. I've never actually fainted, but that was nearest I got, and I had to sit down, head between my knees, before I fell down.

So, with that memory of 25yrs ago fresh in my mind, I tottered my way to the dentist and expected the worst. Happily, my dentist does not believe in pain, so he took some VERY sharp scissors and snipped delicately until they were cut, and then gently pulled them out with some tweezers. He really is heroic.

I now have a new post-operative toothbrush that I use to caress the new gum gently (squirm squirm) and am well and truly on the mend.

I know it'll all end happily but, to be honest, I never ever ever want another gum graft for as long as I live and you can bet that I'll be keeping a very close eye on my gums from now on to stop them getting out of line...

I'm also rather tired of paying my dentist a luxurious lifestyle that I don't have myself.

Buccal War Zone

My poor mouth is a war zone, and I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself, although one benefit is not having to go to work.

Yesterday I had to have a gum graft onto an ailing crown which will also be replaced. The only reason why I accepted the very concept is because my dentist is dedicated to pain relief. Previous procedures, while hardly a barrel of laughs, were, at least, pain free.

He did warn me that it would be uncomfortable though, and gave a quick run through of what he would do. He didn't need to do more, my imagination set to work filling in the details with blood and gore. I was not feeling terribly brave about it beforehand.

For my last meal on Sunday, I cooked double quantities of loup de mer just in case I wouldn't be up to feeding the boys after my operation. Good thing too, I was not en forme last night.

I arrived with much trepidation and almost passed out just after the anaesthetic! Then I had to walk upstairs to the operating theatre. My sweet dentist had finally got around, he told me, to putting some music on the iPod, and so some calming music was wafting out over the speakers. I was dead chuffed because it gave me something to listen to other than nasty dentistry noises, and something to concentrate on other than the unpleasantness that was going on in my mouth.

In fact I decided to ignore the whole thing and just wait for it to go away. My dentist asked me if I wanted him to tell me what he was going to do, and I said no because ignorance is bliss and what good would it do me other than firing my already over-active imagination? Plus, if I was ignoring it, I could hardly do this properly knowing what he was doing, could I? My stance taken, I had to see it right through.

So he did what he had to do, and I sat there listening to music and not wondering at all what was going on. It was pain free, as promised, so no need to flinch or have an anxiety attack at the thought of pain.

At the end of it, he advised me not to look for at least half an hour (it took me most of the day) and to go home and sit with an ice pack on my chin for the rest of the day to stop swelling. That's a lot of ice! So I did, armed to the teeth (as it were) with pain killers, anti-inflammatories, and anti-biotics.

Then I sat in front of the tele, ignoring the computer, books and all other potential forms of entertainment. My ice pack and me watched everything from 'Murder she wrote' to 'The World at War - Burma 1942-45', 'Morse', 'PlV', 'Escape to the Country' and bits of 'Ready Steady Cook'. At that point, my eldest returned home and turned the XBox on so I got to watch him racing sports cars around Hawaii.

When it came to dinner, I was glad the fish was ready, but I couldn't eat it, so did myself some soggy scrambled eggs. It's not easy to eat with a plastic graft guard over the top of my mouth including teeth. I gave up actually after one egg's worth. I can see I'm going to lose weight as it's simply too much hassle eating. Today, I've got some chicken stock out of the freezer to turn into soup.

My poor war zone mouth has stitches inside and an impressive bruise outside. In fact I'm going to have to explain when I see people that I'm a victim of dentistry, not domestic violence! Yesterday I wasn't allowed to talk (which inspired a cheeky remark from my TWDB) or laugh so that the stitches wouldn't come under pressure. Makes me feel queasy just thinking about it... (I'm not good with pain or stitches or bodily issues - would have made a crap nurse and even crappier doctor!)

My only consolation really is that had I not had it done, it would have had to be done later anyway, but much worse and much more expensive. Ageing's a bitch.

Gads Tooth

I think I might be coming to the end of those days when I'd feel faint just going past the dentist's. Modern dentistry doesn't hurt! This is a miracle for our times because it certainly hurt like hell in the olden days when I was young.

On Wednesday evening I broke a front tooth. It looked terrible. I closely resembled a wizened old hag, like one of those who sat around the pot in Macbeth going 'Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble' except of course I don't tend to wear black tattered rags or a pointy hat. Apart from that though...

On Thursday I rang the dentist. He was shut. On a Thursday. I don't understand either... Anyway, I called again on Friday morning and was given an appointment that morning before my teeth started moving off on a tour around my mouth, upsetting my jaw and probably causing the most unholy mess elsewhere.

Trembling like a flippin' jelly but trying not to show it, I arrived and went into the salles des horreurs. It was nice and clean at least. I showed my tooth and the lovely dentist didn't faint with horror or tut tut like a car mechanic to give me the impression I'd have to sell my soul to the devil to pay to put it right. No, he made encouraging noises and told me he'd put on a temporary resin tooth to tide me over and I would have to come back to have a pearly replacement later.

Before anaesthetising the tooth, he squirted the area with some painkiller so when the needle went in I felt nothing. Anaesthetic has improved too. I also felt nothing while he tidied things up and applied the resin. I almost managed to relax and enjoy myself. Had my mouth not been enrobed in a sterile cover thingy ('champ' in French) I suppose I could have enjoyed a jolly chat...

I came away amazed at what a reasonably pleasant experience it had been. This particular dentist is a real jewel. I'm not sure they are all so marvellous, so I'm gonna hang on to him like mad now I've found him!

I just love living in the modern pain-free age!

Carie-on Dentist

I had a really traumatic experience today, and it was all for nothing.

Back in December my youngest had been taken into hospital suffering from dehydration due to a nasty form of gastroenteritis. It is not an experience I would like to relive, and I'm sure he wouldn't either. It has left him with a mortal fear of needles.

Today, however, he had to go to the dentist for a filling, and I was a trifle worried about how he would cope with the whole business. I decided I would sit in the waiting room and not hang about outside the kiddy waiting room which is just opposite the surgery so you hear probably much more than you'd care to.

He was not in any way unduly negative at the idea of having a filling, it being his first and I had purposely not filled him with dread... He went to his doom cheerfully enough, and I went to read Ernest Hemingway short stories in the waiting room. I had got through one about two guys going into a bar, ordering drinks, leaving, going to the station, seeing prostitutes and others and having a chat, and was half way through the one where Mr Macomber's happiness is short-lived when I heard the most almighty yelling coming from a small child.

My heart missed a beat, I could no longer focus on Mr Macomber and didn't give a shit about his happiness as I was far more concerned with that of my youngest. The bellowing sounded horribly like him and I was petrified, unable to think straight or indeed take any form of action. I looked around me. The other people waiting appeared to hear nothing untoward, and were smiling bleakly, as you do in the dentist's waiting room. It's a room in which few care to spend much time.

I considered whether I should dash out and into the surgery crying 'STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY SON?', or whether I should creep to the door and listen for more precise information, or whether I should do nothing and continue reading about the increasingly irritating Mr Macomber's cowardice.

After what seemed like ages, my son walks in, none the worse. I search for signs of tears, high anxiety, pain, reproach, martyrdom and find none. I interrogate the dentist. "Was my son screaming?" I ask him, to the point. Apparently not. It was some child outside. My son was anaesthetised to the hilt, had not recoiled at the sight of the needle, and in fact had taken it all very calmly.

Meanwhile I was practically a gibbering wreck; half from relief, half from fury that I had been taken in by someone else's yelling child. The dentist told me to pull myself together, which I did, ever obedient, and off we went into the pouring rain.

Oh ye of little faith, thought I.