You know that phrase, "It's nothing personal"?
Well, when it comes to someone getting close to my face, it’s extremely personal. The dentist, for example, is my ultimate nemesis. A terrifying blend of discomfort, vulnerability, and, let’s be honest, pure dread.
It all started with a
simple truth: I have a phobia of people invading my space, and my face
seems to be ground zero for this issue. Even a luxury spa can send me
spiraling when treatments venture too close for comfort. So, when my
kindly NHS dentist informed me that I needed root canal treatment, it
was as if every worst fear I’d ever had decided to RSVP to the party in
my head. Together, we decided sedation would be the only way forward—a
plan that felt both comforting and like a necessary survival tactic. But
of course, there was a catch: sedation wasn’t covered by the NHS. That
meant going private, which, while reassuring for my nerves, meant that
my bank account would be taking the hit.
Before the big day of
sedation, I had a preparatory appointment about a month ago. Let’s just
say it didn’t go well. My gag reflex, which I suspect could be measured
on the Richter scale, decided to make its presence known. Several
attempts to take X-rays failed miserably; twice, I managed to eject the
film from my mouth before they could even get the picture. Eventually,
my dentist suggested an in-depth scan, which involved sticking yet
another device in my mouth while I tried desperately not to retch. The
assistant’s kindly "Stay still, and don’t gag" advice was about as
helpful as "Don’t think about elephants." Naturally, all I could think
about was gagging.
After much heaving and wincing, the scan revealed
the true extent of my dental disaster. It turns out that past dental
work had left my bite all wrong, which, over the years, caused damage to
previously healthy teeth. The situation was like a tragic dental soap
opera—innocent teeth turned bad, a cascade of issues, and an
ever-growing to-do list of treatments. It became clear that this would
not be a quick fix. Instead, it would take several appointments (all
private, all sedated) and probably require me to remortgage my house.
Yesterday
marked the first of these appointments. But before we even got to the
dental chair, I had to survive the journey to the dentist. It was a
scene of complete chaos: my husband gently dragging me out of the house
while I clung to the furniture in full panic mode. Sweating, shaking,
struggling to breathe—I was a complete mess. And though I knew my terror
was irrational, knowing didn’t make it any less real. Somehow, with his
support and the promise of sedation, I made it to the car, though I’m
sure I left my dignity behind somewhere on the living room carpet. Oh
wait, we don’t even have a carpet, it’s a laminate floor!
Upon
arriving, the panic didn’t let up. Dizzy and unable to remember how to
breathe properly, I couldn’t focus on anything except the countdown to
sedation. We’d already discussed what was going to happen, and frankly, I
didn’t have the energy—or the will—to talk about it again. Observations
were taken (my perpetually low blood pressure making its usual
appearance), and luckily, my dentist listened to me about my one
functional vein when placing the cannula. That alone was a small
triumph.
Within minutes, the sedation kicked in, and let me tell you,
it was bliss. I might as well have been sipping a gallon of gin,
because when I came around, I felt like I had balloons stuffed into my
mouth and my ability to talk had been entirely compromised. Oh, and
here’s the kicker: eight teeth. Yes, you read that right—eight teeth
were removed in one sitting. Just imagine the horror when, in my
post-sedation haze, the dentist casually asked if I wanted to keep them.
For what, exactly? To make a necklace? Start a dental-themed art
exhibit? I declined.
As if that wasn’t enough, a couple of hours
after getting home, the pain hit—hard. The adrenaline, the sedation, and
whatever inner reserves of strength I had left were all gone. I tried
to tough it out, but eventually resorted to oramorph when the pain
became unbearable. The relief was short-lived, though, as the oramorph
brought its own special treat: itching. Between that and the throbbing
in my gums, I didn’t sleep a wink. To be fair, I hadn’t slept the night
before either, thanks to worrying.
So here I am now: still in
considerable pain, looking like an overstuffed hamster, and so
ridiculously hungry. Eating is out of the question, of course—not only
because my mouth feels like a warzone but also because, well, there
aren’t many teeth left anymore. (Or at least, it feels that way.) All I
want now is sleep—just one blissful moment of uninterrupted sleep.
For
all the anxiety, discomfort, and moments of sheer terror, I know I’ve
still got a long road ahead. But I’ve decided to embrace this experience
with a mix of gallows humor and reluctant courage. If bravery is facing
your fears despite wanting to run a mile, then maybe—just maybe—I
deserve a medal for showing up at all. That and perhaps maybe that
gallon of gin afterall.
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