going dental

First off, apologies for the suspension of services. We have been operating a British Rail style of Sunday Services and I closed the lines for a while while I have been ploughing through the 5 stages of GRIEF involved with change. Denial lasted a day, anger about 4 days, bargaining I wasn't too sure about, but now I am safely tucked in depression and enjoying the food immensely.

But that's not what this post is about.

As a young child, I went to a dentist in Aldershot called Mrs Bird. At least, I think that's what her name was. I remember her chin whiskers clearer than her name. She always said I had lovely teeth. When our family moved to Guildford, my mother found us a Polish dentist on the basis that anything Polish is by far superior. Dr Wilcienski was also a fan of my teeth. He lauded how I could be a poster child for british dentistry. Little did I know that the rest of the world scoffs loudly at british teeth, and that in fact we are well known for our dreadful teeth.

Dr Wilcienski never found anything wrong with my teeth. Even his wife, also a Polish dentist (who saw me one day when he was off) seemed to like my teeth, she might have gently chided me for eating too many kitkats but that was about it. X-rays that showed my wisdom teeth coming through had me off to an Australian dentist at the bottom of Farnham Road, but he didn't see the wisdom in taking them out and so I came to Israel with a full set of never-been-worked-on pearly whites.



3 months in and I went to a henne for some friends. I don't know if you've ever been to a henne, but they feature henna and sugared almonds. I cracked a tooth on one of the sugared almonds.

The husband took me to his father's private SUPER-DOOPER south african dentist in the poshest dental practice known to mankind. Nothing could have prepared me for the gasp that left his core before he had time to compose himself. He said that every single tooth in my mouth needed working on. His assistant concurred. His assistant also diagnosed receding gums. I think he was porking his assistant, but that was never proven and is slightly off-topic.

Lots of SUPER-DOOPER expensive tooth-work later, including root canal at his partner, Solly's, and I was ready to never see a dentist again.

But life isn't like that. A little while later, the wisdom teeth were coming through big time. By this time I was on Israeli healthcare and it was recommended by the mother-in-law to ditch SUPER-DOOPER and to move on to the more than adequate local healthcare.

It just so happened that the day my last two wisdoms were to be extracted there was a terrorist attack at a Pizza place in Jerusalem. Tooth removal collided with Israeli news-junkies. I spent a three-quarter hour appointment watching the same bloodied people wandering around and the same ambulance men shutting the door and banging it off to the hospital over and over. I thought I was going to die. No amount of prescribed mint ice-cream could make up for the trauma.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Time passed and the next tooth down cracked on something. I know what you're thinking but no. It can't have been another sugared almond because I wasn't at a henne since 1999, and haven't eaten any more sugared almonds since then. I had to get an emergency appointment and they are most receptive in Ramat Gan for those. The diagnosing dentist said the whole tooth would have to come out. I got another appointment for tooth extraction. After waiting for an hour after my appointment was supposed to be, a badass angry man in scrubs calls me into the dentist's chair. He had a score to settle. The battlefield: my mouth. He yelled at me more than once for shutting my jaw (you never can tell but you have a natural reflex to slowly close your jaw after flinging it wide open. Go figure.)

And when the tooth was out, I developed dry socket. I'd like to say it's the most painful thing EVER, but since then I've had an HSG, and that was BY FARRRRR the most painful thing EVER.
Still, the dry socket was pretty damn bad and caused me A LOT of trauma.

And so. I never go to the dentist unless something happens. Never go near the place. And, as could well be predicted for the poster girl of British teeth, in passover a wine gum married the corner of one of my fillings. So I had to bite the bullet and go. I booked an appointment and shared my terror with the receptionist. Oh yes, she says. I'll give you Dr Manor.

And when the time comes to meet Dr Manor, I am suprised to see he is a freshly shaven, dashing young dentist. The air fills with rousing music from the best romance film. He has to redo the filling. He understands my fear. He puts me at ease. I have 2 mirrors, 2 suctions and a drill going in my flung wide jaw, but I am calmed by his gentle breathing on my forehead. His hands are big and gentle, when he brushes my lips with his fingers or gently moves my jaw open a little wider, it's very sexy. He's drilling away but I'm thinking to myself that he must be good in bed. When he dries the filling, he leans forward and I can feel his chest on my head. I am filled with the fumes of his aftershave. He moves round and my elbow is leaning on his knee. *Le sigh*.

Too soon, it comes to an end. I'm trying to be cool about it, but I feel like a teenager. I've never had such a lovely dental experience. I must be the only person I know who has experienced stockholm syndrome with their dentist.

I'm going home now to check if we've got any wine gums left.