For the past 18 months or so I have had to contend with the dull ache of a wisdom tooth on a mission. The attention seeking molar would rear its pearly head for a period of about a week before quietening itself again for months at a time. It was during one of these silent periods that I last visited the dentist and for this reason he'd decided it wasn't ready to come out.
Recently I moved away from my paternal abode and as if preparing for the performance of a lifetime, my wisdom tooth resumed its residual ache right on que.
In December finally I organised myself enough to fill out the approximately one million page long application for free dental care and in celebration I booked myself an appointment for my return home during the Christmas break.
The only problem with this was that my appointment was just a few days before Christmas and there was no way I was going to let my primadonna of a tooth upstage my enjoyment of festive food.
The evening prior to the dental appointment I was with friends at my brother's house and I told them of my tooth ache. Being the pillars of life-experience that they are they reassured me that it was unlikely that the dentist would just whip it out. More likely he would make me a second appointment for the surgery and thus not only enable me to gorge myself to my hearts delight but also give ample time for me to psyche myself out for the experience.
Knocking back a glass of mulled wine I thought this an excellent idea.
The next day saw Dorset play the ever faithful role of maintaining a status of Winter Wonderland, or rather 'Winter Walk-out-of-you-house-and fall-on-your-bum-der-land'.
The streets of the village were icy and treacherous to walk or drive on so many cars had been stranded as any slight slope had been transformed into an incline to reckoned with. Since returning home for the Christmas break, aside from visiting my brother the night before I had only ventured out once. Being house bound had also negated the need to coordinate outfits too studiously and since leaving only meant putting on more clothes I simply donned an extra hoodie, my signature pink coat and wellingtons before edging my way to the surgery.
Once there it became clear that the NHS were clearly pumping their funds into heating the place and I'd underestimated quite how warm I would be. After removing my heavy-winter layers I realised I was wearing yet more pink and a dutch t-shirt with a cow on it. Looking very few of my 23 years I also remembered that my child-hood dentist had been replaced by a much younger model - and Model was the operative word.
Introducing himself with a name that instantly fell out of my head, he shook my hand and asked what language that was on my t-shirt.
'Dutch'
'Oh, right, what does it say?'
'Moo says the cow'
I watched as my age decreased yet more.
Sitting back in the dentists chair he began numbering my teeth to the nurse who was diligently taking notes. The wisdom tooth itself had barely began to break through the gum line yet was causing pain because my mouth simply wasn't big enough to accommodate it.
Oh, and it was growing directing outwards into my cheek rather than down into my mouth.
Deciding to take an x-ray of my mouth to determine the actual position of the tooth and the scale of its root, the dentist clamped what seemed to be a black strip of plastic into my mouth. My jaw however seemed to want to underline its lack of capacity by demonstrating its incapability to hold this accessory.
However, after some gentle persuasion and an embarrassing amount of dribble on my part, the x-ray was taken, unveiling a perfect side-view of my front teeth. It seemed my usually gregarious tooth was suffering stage fright and noting that a second x-ray would likely prove equally unsuccessful it appeared my options were one-fold:
1. Just take the tooth out now.
Eyes wide with something other than enthusiasm, I nearly voiced my shock that he even suggested this choice without someone there to hold my hand.
Instead I summoned all the cool nonchalance that I could and replied with a frighteningly sure nod.
Next thing I know I'm having two injections in my mouth to numb the area and of its apparently small size the dentist managed to numb 79% of it. Looking up at a lucid-yellow poster of Spongebob Square Pants I couldn't settle on having my eyes open or closed and so lay there blinking like a startled deer.
After beginning with a combination of forceps the dentist soon requested the least reassuring of instruments.
Pliers.
I tightened my grip on the chair as the dentist tugged at my tooth, wrenching it from its socket and dropping it into my mouth. Mopping the blood from my mouth and tears from my cheeks up I held out my exemption form and timidly asked if I could have my tooth.
Sealed in an over-sized zip-lock bag I held it like a validation certificate of my ordeal.
As if the swollen cheek and inability to form consonants wasn't going to be enough.
I only live a 5 minute walk from the surgery but the experience had sent my legs to jelly and being the pillar of stoicism that i am, called my Mum. The combination of facial numbness and cold had caused me to be unable to form words properly and after I'd dribbled down the phone to her she slipped her way up the road to meet and guide me home.
Judging by this story it might come as a shock to learn that I haven't always been such a stalwart.
Hard to believe, I know but in my family I have in fact gained the unenviable nick-name of 'Cuckoo'.
This term of endearment was won by repeatedly seeking out the affection of my parents while they were actually paying attention to another of my siblings and in effect 'pushing them out of the nest.'
Much like the evolutionary arms race caused by actual brood parasites I would argue that this was character building for my kin and after 23 years I haven't quite lost my tendency to want to build their characters further. For days the story on my slightly lop-sided lips was a tale of bravery, pain and endurance. My overly dramatic tooth had given me a larger stage on which to perch.
Needless to say my tooth was safely deposited under my pillow to await a subtlety recommended visit from the tooth fairy.
On Christmas Eve my jaw ache was finally wearing off and so was the novelty. Looking forward to being freed from the 4 hour round of pain killers and not willing to be defeated by the ice-rink of a pavement, I walked to the carol service and fell promptly on my bottom.
When I feel the weight of guilt of an action I know I shouldn't have committed?
