The Epic Dental Battle: Fear, Sedation, and a Very Empty Mouth

 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.

Cardboard Crowns and Circus Clowns: A Day Out at Attingham Park

 Attingham Park was the ultimate family day out, and it seemed like the weather had decided to show off, bathing us in glorious sunshine. We were practically glowing by the end of the day—not from exertion, but from all the vitamin D we’d soaked up. I’m pretty sure we’ll be mistaken for sunflowers if this weather keeps up! 

Armed with ice creams that seemed to vanish faster than Houdini, we dove headfirst into all the joys the park had to offer.  Let me tell you, the 4x4 mobility scooter was an absolute game-changer. Forget hiking boots; this was mobility with style. I felt like the queen of the countryside. My crown for the day -  free cardboard bunny ears, which I proudly wore. Nothing says “ruler of the countryside” quite like a pair of floppy, slightly squashed ears crafted from cardboard, which dont fit properly and kept falling in front of my glasses.  If anything, it added to the hilarity of my regal mobility scooter parade as I zipped through the stunning grounds—no horn needed, just pure bunny-ear authority! 

 

 Meanwhile, the grandkids were having the time of their lives thanks to the circus-themed Easter extravaganza. With all the juggling, balancing, and other skills on display, it became glaringly obvious that Cirque du Soleil won’t be calling anytime soon. But oh, the determination! The giggles! The sheer glee! Their enthusiasm was unstoppable, and watching them master the challenges was such a treat. The final reward, an Easter egg, felt like the perfect cherry—or should I say chocolate?—on top of their efforts.

 Taco also had a fantastic time. The off-lead area gave him plenty of space to dash around, his energy as uncontainable as ever. Watching him race across the fields and explore the woodlands was such a joy; you could almost feel the happiness radiating from him, especially after having his very own doggie ice cream

 

Attingham Park proved itself to be the perfect blend of fun, nature, and just a touch of silliness. As we left, I couldn’t help thinking this was one of those days that’ll linger in your heart, chocolate smudges and all.
Who knew sunshine, circus antics, and a very energetic dog could combine into such a winning formula? Attingham Park, I tip my imaginary crown to you. 

 

When Life Hands You Symptoms, Make Sarcasm: A Survival Guide to My Body's Shenanigans

My body’s ever-evolving list of symptoms feels like a revolving door of challenges. The latest additions to the lineup are trigeminal neuralgia and a constant barrage of headaches that often escalate into migraines. These newcomers certainly know how to make an entrance—and not in a subtle way.

For years, I’ve been hosting the regulars: fibromyalgia, back pain, ADHD, and the hormonal chaos brought on by menopause. They’re old acquaintances by now, each with their own quirky demands. But trigeminal neuralgia and the headaches? They’re the fresh-faced rookies determined to make their mark. And boy, have they succeeded.

As if my usual challenges weren’t enough, the plot thickened with recent blood tests. Turns out, I’m running low on vitamin D3 and serum folate—two things I didn’t even realize could run low. My liver function tests (LFTs) have also decided to join the watch list, because apparently my body thrives on keeping me guessing.

In response, my GP has joined the party with a mixed strategy. On one hand, they’ve prescribed folic acid to give my folate levels a boost. On the other, they’ve handed me the reins to find my own vitamin D3 supplement. It’s like DIY healthcare meets professional intervention. So now, alongside waiting for a head and neck scan to confirm the existence of my brain, I’m also scouring the shelves (or websites) for the perfect sunshine-in-a-pill solution. Pro tips are welcome!

And then there’s the waiting. Oh, the waiting. I’m still in line for that scan, where the big mystery will (hopefully) be solved. The irony of questioning whether I have a brain, while managing all of this, isn’t lost on me. But the waiting isn’t just about finding answers; it’s about finding patience in the face of uncertainty, which is easier said than done when your head feels like it’s hosting a nonstop rave.

Living like this means navigating not just the physical pain, but also the mental and emotional toll of uncertainty and constant adaptation. Yet somehow, amid the chaos, I’ve managed to find moments of lightness. Humor has become my go-to coping mechanism. Laughing at the absurdity of it all feels like reclaiming a tiny slice of control in a situation where so much feels out of my hands.

So here’s to anyone out there juggling their own long list of symptoms, inconclusive tests, and never-ending waits: you’re not alone. Life might not look how you imagined, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still find joy, humor, and resilience. Keep going, share your story, and most importantly, remember that even on the hardest days, you’re so much more than just your symptoms.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to research ways to boost vitamin D and folate without losing my sense of humor. Let’s see if I can turn sunshine and greens into something mildly entertaining—or at least edible.

 

 

An Unexpected Curtain Call: A Reflection on Strength

Some time ago, I enjoyed a night at the theatre—a much-needed escape from the everyday challenges of navigating the world as a disabled person. The show? *Calendar Girls.* It was set to be an evening of laughter, inspiration, and a bit of cheeky humor. Little did I know, the real drama wouldn’t take place on the stage but in the theatre foyer.

During the evening, I needed to use the disabled toilet. For many of us with disabilities, these facilities are essential, offering the access and dignity we deserve. But as I stepped out, what should have been a simple and uneventful moment turned into one that would stay with me long after.

A woman, standing nearby, loudly declared to everyone within earshot, “I don’t think she needed to be in there, did she?” Her words cut through the air, and in an instant, I found myself at the centre of unwanted attention.

I took a deep breath, turned to her, and calmly replied, “I’m afraid you know nothing whatsoever about me.” My voice was steady, even though inside, my heart was racing.

What happened next touched me deeply. Members of the WI (Women’s Institute) who were also at the theatre that night—many of whom I knew—showed their support in the most heartwarming way. They clapped, not as an exaggerated ovation, but as a genuine gesture of solidarity. Their kindness made me feel less alone in that moment, reminding me that there are allies who see and value you, even when someone else tries to knock you down.

Even so, the experience left its mark. When I got back to my friends, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving me shaking and emotional. Tears followed—not because I hadn’t defended myself, but because it hurt that I had to. The memory lingers as both a reminder of how cruel assumptions can be and a testament to the power of solidarity and kindness.

Looking back now, I’m grateful for that unexpected act of support from the WI members. It showed me that strength doesn’t come from facing things alone—it’s bolstered by the kindness of those who stand with us.

To anyone who’s ever felt judged for simply existing, know this: you don’t owe anyone an explanation. And to those tempted to judge? Please remember, you may never fully understand someone else’s story, but you always have the choice to be kind. Kindness costs nothing, but its impact lasts a lifetime.

 

 

Living with a Hidden Disability: Seeing Beyond the Surface

When you look at me, you may not immediately see the challenges I navigate every day. My disabilities—fibromyalgia, back problems, ADHD, and the realities of menopause—don’t always come with visible signs. They’re hidden, but they’re there, shaping my days and impacting my life in ways that aren’t always apparent to the outside world.

Living with a hidden disability is a delicate balancing act. On some days, I rely on a mobility scooter to get around. On other days, I might not need it. And this, understandably, can spark confusion or assumptions from others. But here’s a simple comparison: think of wearing glasses. Without your glasses, your vision isn’t clear—they help you see the world more comfortably. My mobility scooter (and other aids) serves the same purpose. When I need it, it makes my day-to-day existence manageable, much like glasses do for someone with impaired vision.

But the difference is, society tends to accept variability with something like glasses without question. With disabilities, however, there’s often misunderstanding or doubt, as if consistency is the only proof of legitimacy.

The truth is, people often see me only on the days when I can manage to leave the house, when I can get dressed and appear “put together.” They don’t see the days I’m confined to bed, unable to muster the strength to move, or the mornings where the simple act of dressing feels impossible. These moments are hidden from view, but they are just as real.

What many don’t realize is that my pain is a constant companion. I live with it 24/7—it never leaves. Even when I manage to step out and appear as though I’m doing fine, I’m still carrying that pain with me. It’s always there, in the background or roaring at the forefront, and yet I’ve learned to mask it. I’ve become excellent at appearing “okay,” at masking how I feel and what I’m enduring. My pain might be invisible to others, but it is unrelenting and ever-present in my reality.

Fibromyalgia, with its unpredictable flare-ups of pain and fatigue, can feel like a lottery I never signed up for. Back problems add a constant hum of discomfort to my days, while ADHD makes focus and organization a relentless challenge. And then there’s menopause—a natural transition that many experience, but one that amplifies my existing struggles with energy, mood, and well-being.

What I want others to see is the humanity behind the invisible challenges. Living with a hidden disability isn’t about seeking pity—it’s about fostering understanding and empathy. Just because you can’t see pain, or fatigue, or the mental overwhelm, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. A smile, a laugh, or the way someone appears shouldn’t be mistaken as evidence that the struggle has disappeared.

Instead of making assumptions, I ask people to extend the same compassion they would to someone with a visible disability. That small shift can make a world of difference for those of us navigating life with hidden challenges.

Living with a hidden disability has taught me resilience. Every day, I navigate a world designed for a different kind of body and mind, and while it’s not easy, it’s made me stronger, more empathetic, and more appreciative of life’s little victories.

So the next time you see someone who seems “fine” one day and needs assistance the next, remember the glasses analogy. It’s not inconsistency; it’s the nature of living with a body that doesn’t always play by the rules. And please, remember that the moments where we appear able to cope don’t erase the ones where we cannot—they are simply a part of the greater whole of what it means to live with hidden disabilities.

 

 

The Hair Appointment Saga: A Comedy of Errors

Some days, life throws you a gentle curveball. Other days, it hurls the entire circus at you before noon. Today was one of those days.

Step one: Get out of bed and shower. Should be simple enough, right? Except it felt like an Olympic event, and I wasn’t even sure I’d signed up for the competition. Nevertheless, I powered through, emerging victorious and smelling vaguely like accomplishment.

Then came the

**hunt for the car keys**

a classic thriller in which I am both protagonist and detective, searching for an item that simply evaporates when needed. Eventually, the keys reappeared, smugly sitting somewhere I swear I had already checked.

With keys in hand, I finally set off—only to remember that my hairdresser operates on an old-school cash-only basis. A minor inconvenience, unless you’re me, and you use your card so infrequently that recalling the PIN is akin to unlocking a long-forgotten prophecy. Thus began the

**great cash machine adventure**,

featuring a quick tutorial on how to look up a PIN and a moment of panic when my fingers hovered over the keypad, questioning my entire existence.

Now, you’d think this would be the end of my trials. Oh, how naive. Enter:

*The Pedestrian Showdown.**

My electric car, silent as a sneaky ninja, was reversing when a woman strolled right into my path—without a glance. Naturally, I stopped. She did not. She then turned to glare at me, clearly implying that this near-collision was **my** fault, despite my being firmly stationary at the time. Perhaps she believed telepathy should be among my driving skills.

Eventually, I made it to the appointment, where scissors and hair dye worked their magic. But let it be known—before beauty, before relaxation, there was chaos.

Moral of the story? Some days, even the simple tasks demand an epic quest. And if you happen to drive an electric car, maybe start carrying a neon sign that says,

**"I AM MOVING, I SWEAR"**. 

 

Navigating the Concrete Jungle: A Mobility Scooter Adventure

Today’s sunny weather promised the perfect opportunity to dust off my mobility scooter and take my canine companions for a stroll. Or should I say, a roll? The dogs were ecstatic; tails wagging, tongues flopping, ready to sniff every blade of grass in sight. Little did they know, we were about to embark on an obstacle course that would make a ninja warrior sweat.

The journey started off blissfully normal. Birds chirping, a gentle breeze in the air, and my trusty mobility scooter purring like a well-fed kitten. However, as I cut through the brand-new estate nearby, I quickly discovered that the concept of “brand new” didn’t extend to “user-friendly” or “accessible.”

Oh, the pavements. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the estate was a covert training ground for off-road rally drivers. Dropped kerbs? More like kerbs that reluctantly dipped their toe into accessibility but refused to commit. Some still stood defiantly high, others with ridges so sharp they could double as speed bumps. My scooter’s wheels pleaded for mercy every time they met these delightful architectural choices.

And the uneven surfaces—how I didn’t end up doing an Olympic-worthy tumble is still a mystery. There were moments when I felt like my scooter was auditioning for a remake of “The Italian Job,” teetering precariously on the brink. At one point, I had no choice but to steer onto the road like a rebellious teenager ditching the pavement entirely. Cars gave me some raised eyebrows and a few sympathetic nods, as if to say, “Ah, yes, the kerb war claims another victim.”

Meanwhile, the dogs were oblivious to my struggles, merrily exploring every hedgerow and lamppost like urban adventurers. I envied their carefree attitude—they didn’t have to wrestle with poorly designed pavements or risk getting stuck halfway up a kerb.

By the time we made it back home, I was left wondering who designs these estates. Do they view mobility scooter users as some rare mythical species they might never encounter, or are they just secretly testing our agility skills? Either way, I’d like to invite them to spend a day navigating their masterpiece on wheels. It could be enlightening—or at least slightly embarrassing.

So, to fellow mobility scooter warriors out there: stay strong, stay vigilant, and may your kerbs be kind and your pavements smooth. As for me, I’ll be drafting a strongly worded email to whoever’s in charge of urban planning. And maybe rewarding myself with a large cup of tea—because even scooter adventures deserve a bit of comfort at the end.

 

the photos dont really show the angle and how deep the ridge is really