The Hobart Chronicles XXVIII: Pearly White

"Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear
And it shows them pearly white."
- Bobby Darin, Mack The Knife, 1959

"Excuse me, a doormat’s good honest work
Only the bored and the wicked rich don’t know that."
- Kristin Hersh, Not Like You, 1998

Apologies for the relative lack of movement on the Chronicles; after the flurry of virtual activity in Sin City, the return to Slobart necessitated a return to more time-demanding work. Besides, I haven’t had much to write, and so writing nothing rather than blathering on is a type of discipline. That’s my excuse, anyway.

Now, here’s something worth telling you.* [*if you’re not fond of medical procedures, better move on now to paragraph 7]

As of 4.30 this afternoon, there’s (yet another) hole in my life… this one specifically in my lower jaw. It announces that I’ve finally taken the first step on the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey. In short, my jaws have always been too small for my teeth, and over the years as they have jostled for space like tectonic land plates, the teeth have become more and more crooked, leading to all sorts of problems. Not being cashed up in my 20s, and then not particularly keen to attempt major dental work in Tamworse where a consulting orthodontist flew in every few weeks, I’ve put off seeking a permanent fix.

Also I confess that although tolerant of all kinds of stomach-turning health issues (viz. injections, pap smears), I suffer a primal fear of dentists. If I review all the dental experiences in my life, I can testify to having been consistently treated by unsympathetic sadists too stingy with the anaesthetic who have clearly enjoyed torturing me in the chair and then charging me ruinously for the privilege. I swear I once heard one whisper, “Is it safe?” before starting a drill. So just the minty smell of fluoride solution puts me on edge; the distant mosquito whine of a drill behind a closed door, and it’s all I can do not to run screaming from the blue-uniformed lady at the reception desk.

Thus you can imagine my horror when the dentist Dr W showed me the casts of my teeth and explained, using the plaster model, that the bottom teeth were so numerous and big that they had actually deformed the shape of my lower jaw. Mmmm, buckled. Dr W said nothing at all about my upper teeth, but as that cast looked like the false teeth used by the serial killer in the Hannibal Lecter flick Red Dragon (I swear, for once this is not an exaggeration) there was little need to add to this impressive visual evidence.

The plan is: 4 teeth out (2 upper, 2 lower), a small bridge for the upper jaw, a plate to shift some of the remaining upper teeth into a better position, and some ceramic veneers, with an ETA of about 6 months. Short of removing 4 (different) teeth and then enduring three years of braces, or simply having the whole lot ripped out and starting again, this seems the best plan. The downside is the sacrificial slaughter of several years of hard-won savings; the upside is that health insurance should take some of the sting out. And, as Dr W pointed out, for every dollar you spend over $1500 a year on medical procedures the federal government gives you twenty cents back, so I stand to recoup close to a gorilla. This was news to me, but as Dr W kindly explained, young and otherwise healthy folk don’t tend to learn this until we get much older and our bits start breaking down. There’s your and my taxes at work – helping the old, the infirm, and me.

So today, to begin, Dr W repaired an old filling and then ripped out the first tooth. The filling was actually worse, accompanied as it was by the whining drill. For the extraction, he cranked my gob open, levered the tooth back and forth for about 30 seconds until I thought my jaw would crack, and then the next thing I knew he was packing my mouth with cotton wadding. Out in less than two minutes, and thanks to a heroic amount of anaesthetic I am only feeling the bruising now, some four hours later. I suspect I shall be feeling it for some hours to come. But at least the job’s underway.

[*7] Winter has finally set in during the past seven days. Slobartians enjoyed a very long and pleasant indian summer, but we are paying for it now. All the more reason to enjoy indoor activities, including the theatre (both dental and stage varieties).

At the weekend I took in Macbeth, staged by the Bell Shakespeare Company at Slobart’s little gem, the Theatre Royal. Each year Bell tours a production to Tasnarnia, and this year he brought us the Scottish play. There’s no doubt the Bard’s old words have much life in them yet, but they have become so familiar you want to shout out those iconic lines in unison with the witches or mad Lady Macbeth. If we lived in a world created by Jasper Fforde (of the excellent Thursday Next novels – silly and clever at once) Shakespeare would be an interactive event. Something to aim for, maybe.

Speaking of aiming for things, I have a long overdue obligation to answer a tag from Cellobella, the Red Sultana who recently commanded the tagged to Name Your Goals. Well ’Bella, I assume you meant 'life goals' or something similar, but here’s some goals for this week. Since I can barely plan beyond this evening, forecasting for the week should be seen for the achievement it is.
1. Mop the floor (...okay, I’ll try harder than this! But it does need doing!)
2. Get out and see more: more films, theatre, exhibitions, walking and hiking
3. Work on my pot-making skills (more on this another time)
4. Learn to have a quiet heart
5. Finish the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey without crying (in front of Dr W at least)

And I tag... well, as I think I explained last time, I don't know very many bloggers, and very few of them probably pop by here regularly. So I invite all readers who may NOT be bloggers to write a reply. Grin - and bear it.