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The Dental Saga: an epic tale of fear and loathing. Oh, and pain.
Thursday, Mar. 11, 2004 @ 10:12 pm

There's a bar that we like to go to called the Victoria Pub. Inside, it's all...victorian, maybe a bit of art deco thrown in, with a decor seemingly unchanged in over 100 years. During happy hour, the U-shaped bar is covered with free food. They serve Guinness on tap, and a full selection of coctails. If you can get a table-- and if you show up between 6 and 8 pm, or after 11 pm, you probably won't-- they'll bring you a free basket of stale popcorn. I don't know how they do it, really: you can hear the popcorn popping, it smells fabulous, but five minutes after it hits your table it's just terrible. No matter-- you'll eat it anyway.

A while back, I was at the Victoria sipping a prosecco and absently munching stale popcorn, when a chunk of one of my molars broke off. I thought it was an unpopped kernal at first, but then I discovered a big hole in the side of my tooth. Careful probing with my tongue revealed that the hole had exposed the amalgam filling at the center of the tooth. It felt rough, but it didn't hurt. Nevertheless, I decided that I would have to go to the dentist and have it looked at. I asked Maggie, who was also sipping a prosecco and absently nibbling popcorn, if she could recommend any local dentists. She couldn't. I decided to ask around. Somebody, I reckoned, must know of a dentist not currently employed by Satan. But, as I said, it didn't hurt, so we ordered more prosecco and resumed our nibbling; in my case, chewing with the other side of my mouth.

Now I said "a while back" above because I cannot remember exactly how long ago this occurred. To narrow it down, however, I should note that the Victoria is located in Milano, roughly midway between La Scala and where we used to live. I should also note that we haven't lived in Milano for 20 months, and that when we went back to visit, we never did make it in to the bar in question.

So. Fast forward a minimum of two years, to two weeks ago. Brenda, Stan and I are talking at the Pub, and Brenda mentions that she plans to go to the dentist the following day. Stan states unequivocally that he will never go to the dentist in question because he is British, and all British dentists are sadists. I reply that all dentists are sadists, as far as I can tell, and that one of my goals in life is to avoid setting foot in a dental office ever again. As evidence for this, I cite my Broken Tooth at the Victoria story.

Brenda is appalled. "You need to have that looked at! You'll feel much better if you do!"

"I will not," says I. "I guarantee it."

She asks how long it has been since I've been to the dentist. "Well, let's see. I went in Germany, and I lived in Milan for three years..." She asks Stan. His answer is not much better. In fact, I got the impression he was not being entirely truthful.

Brenda is an energetic and determined person. Eventually, the three of us make a Dental Pact. Stan even agrees to go with Brenda to the dentist the very next day. (Stan is admittedly very interested in Brenda, and the man's willingness to accompany her speaks volumes about his devotion.) I agree to make an appointment after they have reported back on their dental experience, and can assure me in no uncertain terms that the man does not have horns, hooves or a tail.

Brenda and Stan, as it happens, do not make it to the dentist after all, due to crippling hangovers. I, on the other hand, mention the Dental Pact to Elvis, who reads me the riot act over my crippling dental-phobia despite the fact that he has, himself, not graced a dental office in longer than I have. It's all very "Pot, meet the Kettle", but I call the British Dentist and make an appointment all the same, and I make one for Elvis whilst I'm at it.

On Sunday, Brenda and I go to cinema. In an incredible twist of fate, I break off another chunk of tooth as I absent mindedly nibble on my mandatory movie popcorn. It still doesn't hurt per se, but now even more of the filling is exposed and now it's sharp and cutting into the side of my tongue.

Luckily, I already had a dental appointment. I was not forced to do my patented "make an appointment for a cleaning, sit in the torture device chair, and say 'by the way, as long as I'm here...'", which I have used so sucessfully in the past. Oh, they'll make you come back for the actual cleaning, but you can always skip that if the bastard dentist was excessively sadistic.

So, Tuesday afternoon I turn up at the British Dentist. I saw no horns, nor did he appear to have cloven hooves. He was wearing a white lab coat that could, possibly, have concealed a tail, but all in all he seemed OK, dentist-wise, so I took my seat and said "By the way, I chipped a molar on Sunday, and the tooth doesn't hurt, but there's a filling exposed, and it's irritating my tongue." At no point did I mention that this was a two-stage occurrence.

Now, at this stage, I am terrified. Well, I was terrified the entire time I was there, but I was exceptionally terrified because I figured that, seeing as only about a third of my tooth was going to be left once the filling was removed, I would have to have a crown. And possibly a root canal. And it was all too horrible to contemplate.

"Those amalgam fillings can be sharp," said the British Dentist. "Let's have a look." And he did, and took an X-ray that showed up immediately on his laptop, and said "Well, all we need to do is take that old filling out of there and put a new one in. No problem."

I'm beginning to almost like the man.

Then, he showed me the X-ray of one of my wisdom teeth. I've had the top two pulled, because I had to-- in fact, one of them was rubbing a hole in my cheek, so I made an appointment for a cleaning and said "By the way, seeing as I'm here, could you file down that wisdom tooth a bit so it doesn't rub a hole in my cheek any more?" This was with Stan, the only dentist that I've ever liked, and he was a bit, shall we say, taken aback. Then he pulled it, and the other one that had a cavity so big that I could lose entire pieces of popcorn in it, that Dr. Ferryman refused to fill because he was under the delusion that I was going in to the oral surgeon to get all four of them taken out. Then he made me come back for an actual cleaning, which I actually did because I rather liked Stan. Also, he used a lot of anesthetic.

My bottom two wisdom teeth have never surfaced, and every dentist I have ever visited (even, alas, my buddy Stan) has wanted me to go to an oral surgeon who would crack open my jawbone, smash the teeth inside, and remove them piece by piece. As you might imagine, my response to that particular sick fantasy is No Way In Hell.

"Hmm," says the BD. "Do these ever bother you?"

"No," says I. Suspiciously.

"Then I would suggest you leave them where they are."

My opinion of the British Dentist is soaring at this point.

"Now, what I would suggest, and I'm sure you'll agree," continues the BD, "is that a bit local anesthetic is definitely called for."

Yep. The British Dentist is definitely my kind of guy.

Whilst we're waiting for the anesthetic to kick in, BD starts cleaning my teeth-- unlike other dentists, who leave you all alone to contemplate your fate whilst they flirt with the hygienist. "You've got a bit of staining here," he says, amply demonstrating the British knack for subtle understatement. "I wonder what vices caused these. Red wine?" Check. "Cigarettes?" Check. "Coffee?" Compared to the red wine, not so much, but yes. "Tea?" Check.

"Oooh," says BD. "Hat trick."

Sense of humor? In a dentist? That settles it: I like him.

And for the next hour, he pretty much fashions me a new tooth out of that white bonding filling material they use for fillings these days, regaling me with amusing anecdotes every now and again. And it hurts, and there's the nightmare drilling noises and so forth but, you know, it wasn't so bad. At one point, he tells me I'm being very brave, which upon reflection sounds like an odd thing to say to a 39 year old woman, but it was fine at the time. Besides, no one has every associated me, bravery and the dentist before. Quite frankly, no one is ever likely to do so again, so I shall treasure the memory.

And then, when it was all over (and I was instructed to make another appointment so he could finish the cleaning), he actually apologized for it taking so long. "But," he said, "it was a very big filling."

More British understatement. You've gotta love it.

Here's another example: His "bit of local anestetic?" Did not START to wear off for over four hours. Which was a bit annoying and inconvenient, but so, so worth it.

That evening, Elvis and I went out to our favorite restaurant, and I had the loin of pork with port wine sauce and apples, and my first asparagus of the season, gratine�d with cheese. Elvis had his favorite loin of lamb-- which isn't even on the menu any more-- and steamed asparagus on the side, and we shared a fabulous bottle of red wine, and they gave us 10 year old port on the house (they were out of the 20), and I finished my meal with an espresso made with actual Lavazza coffee, and life was very, very good.


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