Will Harris pays a nightmarish visit to the dentist
“And what are we doing to you today, Mr Harris?” asks the dentist, who is smiling one of those big white smiles that dentists always have. From my position on the mechanical chair, it looks like she is about to eat me.
“Um…” I crane to try and get a better look at my notes. “I’m supposed to have a wisdom tooth removed. Doesn’t it say? Bottom set, right hand side. My right, I mean. So your left…”
“I’ll need a long needle please,” she tells the nurse, who has an Eastern Bloc accent and one eyebrow (when she bent over to put my safety goggles on, I could’ve sworn her name badge read Igor). “Let’s try two per cent xylocaine with 20ml adrenaline for starters.”
“When she bent over to put my safety goggles on, I could’ve sworn her name badge read Igor”
Adrenaline, I want to tell her, will not be a problem. This is my first ever surgical procedure and I’ve been running on the stuff ever since I slept through my alarm this morning, woke up and realised I had half an hour to get to the hospital. The ensuing mad dash through the streets saw me arrive just in time, but without breakfast, without a shower, and with – I soon realised from the horrified expression of a young mother in the waiting room – a large hole in the crotch of my jeans. This is not ideal. Now not only do I face the prospect of invasive surgery, I’ll have to sit through the whole thing with my knees clamped together like a sexually repressed governess in a Henry James novel.
“You’re doing very well,” says the dentist, as blood starts to fly. She motions to Igor. “Will you crank it up a bit please?”
What exactly it is that needs to be cranked up I don’t know. In fact, I don’t want to know. If it were a giant lightning rod poking through the roof of the dental hospital, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve always wondered why people make such a carry on about going to the dentist, and now I know. It’s not the pain (thanks to the local, I remain blissfully numb throughout). It’s more the unpleasant sensation of being flat on your back while a total stranger has their hands in your mouth, and is offering you such gems of information as, “Don’t panic but you’re about to hear a crack.”
Fortunately, by the time it’s over, the anaesthetic has kicked in to such an extent that I’m largely off my tits anyway. This feels reassuring, like revisiting my early 20s. So off I lurch down the ward, unwashed, unsteady, hair sticking out in every direction, tears in my clothes, blood dribbling down my chin, and groaning. That’s the NHS for you, I suppose. I only went in to have a tooth out, and I’ve come out as the living dead.
Illustration: Paul Lewis www.pointlessrhino.com
