In the dentist’s surgery yesterday, she tugged at my molar then hurriedly clapped a wad of cotton against it, tipping my head back. They called Mum in.
I thought, “what’s wrong? Am I bleeding to death? I don’t feel as though I am.”
Slowly I realized that, though the procedure had only taken about 7 seconds, my broken tooth had been removed. After all that deliberate calming of my breathing, getting ready for another ten minutes of trapped misery, it was done with already.
I almost felt cheated.
They only called Mum because I couldn’t hear the dentist and her nurse speaking to me. I have to turn my hearing aids off when I lie down/yawn/grin/don a hat, otherwise I get a lot of nasty squealing feedback. I hate the tendency of hearing aids to do that, and you feel betrayed by them when you don’t hear the feedback but other people do. From those who lack personal experience, you get the query, “what’s that noise?”
Everybody else: “What noise?”
From someone who knows: “Oh, it’s Diddums’ hearing aids. It’s just feedback.”
I hate the little blighters. When I was younger I wanted to crush them out of existence. The only thing that held me back was knowing all the hassle I would have to go through to get them replaced. I’m convinced that my constant anxiety that they would squeal has made me stiff and cautious. A child’s whine in a shop is enough to make me turn the aids right off: I can’t always tell the difference. Tinkling background piano music on the TV has a similar irritating effect on me. But I digress…
It was amazing how quickly that tooth was removed. I would have done it sooner if I’d known. I was asked if I wanted to keep it, but waved it away… I’ve never had the impulse to keep ex-body parts. When they’re gone, they’re gone.
(Just this moment spat out a chunk of enamel).
I’m too old for tooth fairies, though I’m quite sure they exist…