I’d been dreading February 28 since the beginning of December.
That’s when my dentist decided to give up the ghost on the bottom middle gnasher which has been on a break, fill, break whirligig for yonks.
The tooth mannie before him had spied decay about two years ago and reckoned it should be wheeched then and there. Imparting a teeny bit too much information, he suggested I made a 40-minute appointment lest it broke on the wye ootski. Mummy, daddy, helpmagum – visions of howkin’, hammerin’, blood and bone. Petrified, I opted to wait until it was either sore or beyond repair.
Now I’ve no great fear of dentists; the weight of metal fillings in my gob would scuttle a small boat. But that’s the point. I’ve only ever had two teeth extracted. The first when I was about seven and had to endure the torture of one of those huge masks over my wee facie. Wrinklies old enough to remember will surely never forget ‘em, especially the sickening smell of gas and rubber.
Then, days before I was getting married in 1974, the dentist declared my wisdom tooth would “ruin” my honeymoon, yarkin’ it oot then and there. As it happens, it was rampant food poisoning that “did for” the honeymoon.
It wasn’t painful but it wis deffo nae fine
Pals haven’t helped. One “sympathised”, saying she’d to go back the day after an extraction, thanks to a bone pokin’ through the gap. Gee, thanks.
Even worse, Sheila went into all the gory details about how she ended up in ARI having blood transfusions because the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. Aaaargh.
So, off I tremulously tottered on Monday, all too aware another two teeth had broken. (I’m like the wreck of the Hesperus!) Was I heading for the triple axel? No, he’d fill them while the injections (plural?) were freezing my moo.
As my quine implored me when she picked me up later, I won’t go into much detail lest it make any of you dentophobes out there even worse.
Suffice to say, it wasn’t painful but it wis deffo nae fine. Eyes tight shut lest I spied an array of grisly instruments. The damnt fang that’s been with me nearly 70 years wisna leavin’ the joint without a fight.
An ecstasy of ficherin’, howkin’, tuggin’; my fingers tightened roon the chair arms for fear he might actually elevate me by the root. A crack – I groaned, assuming it had broken. Then another; oh, no, Mo. I’ll be needin’ dig-oot surgery.
Then, halle-flaming-lujay. He leaned back and said that was it. Took 10 minutes – maybe less. An eternity to me.
The howker and his nurse congratulated me on doing well. I reciprocated
On a tray lay the huge bloody horror. Gads. Unbroken; two big roots which I reckon accounted for the cracks as they heided oot. I was almost in tears of relief. Knees shakkin’.
The howker and his nurse congratulated me on doing well. I reciprocated.
Once home, feelin’ affa prood and relieved, I lay on the sofa and decided to play some music using the new Alexa remote thingiebob I got for my birthday.
However, because my moo was still numb from the needles, when I said: “Alexa. Play Barbra Streisand”, it just came out: “Aaaalllchch. Phoaybbbbbeeshsh.”
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970
