Mouth Wide Shut

Iam back after a while, and with a sordid tale to tell.....a tale of pain and distress, of bloodshed and gore, straight from the dentist's lair...definitely not for the faint-hearted.

First, I will have you know that I possess a perfect set of teeth. In fact, I have been blessed with two more than the customary gift of 32 bestowed on ordinary mortals. But are these guys satisfied with their unique status? Oh no! They had to start infringing on the rightful territory of the bourgeoisie 32 and start a war in the confines of my mouth. As a result, the hateful buggers had to go. And as a result, I was at the dentist's.

I will also have you know that people who know me well admire my ability to endure physical pain. As I always tell anyone who cares to listen, the key to this is to formulate a thinking strategy to counter the arrows shot at you. For example, if it's an intense but throbbing kinda pain, it's important to get into the rhythm of the 'throbs'. You almost start enjoying it once you get into the groove. But if it's more of a sustained or unpredictable kind, the best strategy is to be distracted by something irrelevant - like the dentist on this occasion.

By this time, I was in the reclining operating chair under the spotlight and the entire left side of my mouth felt like rubber and twice its size. The Dentist (D) and his assistant seemed to be twice their size too, staring down at me intently from behind their surgery masks.

"Good Afternoon," I attempted cheerfully through my numb mouth.

"Good Afternoon! So shall we begin?" D countered even more cheerfully, and without waiting for my assent, very impolitely proceeded to pull my two jaws apart and peer in.

"Open please," A phrase I was to be very well acquainted with over the next 45 minutes.

"A-ash"

Apparently D wasn't happy with my efforts at 'opening up' and proceeded to help in the process, and I could feel my lips just about coming apart at the edges.

"Vhy vhipsh aar een uuld avaert"

D let go of my mouth and asked anxiously, "You aren't able to feel your tongue, right?"

"Yes, I mean no..., just that my lips are being pulled apart." Anything to feel my upper and lower lips together again.

"Oh yes," said D back to his cheerful self, "You see, the bad boys are molars right at the back. So we have to make an extra effort, see?"

Hmm....maybe that I saw, but I certainly couldn't bear to see the drill going in later to do its dastardly deed, nor could I see all those fancy gadgets being poked in. I dont have a name for any of them but they were all monotonously long, steel, sharp and sinister.
I will spare you the really gory details, but I did drink human blood that day, even if it was my own. As an aside, blood has a very strange, tangy taste to it, you know....nothing like any other liquid, but not entirely unpalatable too. This is not to imply that I have any Idi Amin tendencies, but I do get an idea of what all these vampires seem to keep raving about.

Anyway, the routine over the next half-hour went like....

"Open".
"Aah".
D drills.

"Spit".
I turn and spit into an adjacent bowl.

D pokes around.

...And repeat.

This became so predictable that when D motioned for "spirit" to his assistant, I obediently turned to the spit-bowl again. For some obscure reason, this seemed to have them in splits.

The main act was reserved to a mean-looking pair of tweezers with which D got hold of my molars and proceeded to thrash around, literally shaking my head....you know, like when you have that irritating piece of plaster sticking to your finger and you do your best to dislodge it. ....Sigh! For all the advancements in technology, this is what it still comes down to. Well, atleast someone discovered anaesthesia somewhere down the line....whew!

A final 'pop' and the final tooth was out. It, along with its comrade, was displayed in all its slain glory to me, and I almost felt sad for them. They had fought valiently. D then proceeded to exhibit his meticulous stitching skills to me as I felt the needle and thread go in and out of my mouth till the battleground was cleared and all spruced-up. It was only at the final call of "Yes, it's all done!", did I realise that I had raised my feet off the seat since God-knows-when and the arms of the chair had grown hot from my clutching at them.

As I departed, D's final sinister warnings of mouth-swellings and excruciating pain over the next few days failed to burden my light heart, which exulted at having had the deed over and done with. But the Good D has proven to be right again. It doesn't seem worth living these days.

Luckily, I managed to pick up an ancient, yellowed copy of Beau Geste, one of my childhood favourites, the other day at a second-hand book stall, and this has served as an indispensable friend for me in this time of personal strife. After all, what's a toothache, when you're roughing it out in the deserts of North Africa with the French Foreign Legion, in search of adventure, romance, mystery and intrigue?
It's a quaint and beautiful story, and like I always say, it's all about the distraction, see?