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I was below par yesterday. In part this was down to a wine tasting followed by a rather good three course meal with wine. And port. And then whisky.
So I was - well, a touch hungover.
And then I had to spend an hour at the dentist, my mouth wide open, as he used pain as a way to explore my tooth. My pain.
I have been seeing a bit too much of my dentist. I know him quite well - I have been going to the same dentist for twenty years - but frankly in the last year I have spent rather took much time in his company.
Since 1986, when I had a childhood filling replaced, I had gone twenty six years without any dental work at all. I was quite pleased with my teeth, proud even.
But in the last year, they have got their own back, punishing me for fifty years of profligacy. Or, as my dentist said, I'm probably just reaching the age at which teeth start to fail. (He reckoned that this generation is seeing all sorts of problems with their teeth that previous generations didn't - because they'd have lost all their teeth by now.)
Back in November, it became apparent that I had a cracked molar, which was removed in January (after I ummed and ahhed about having an implant. I decided not, since it seemed purely cosmetic, and expensive to boot. For a tooth no one would notice was gone). It was the first toothache I had had since adolescence.
A couple of weeks later, a bit fell off another tooth, requiring a trip back to my dentist.
And now another toothache has been revealed to have been caused by an infection in a tooth apparently long dead, and requiring possible hours of root canal work.
I had had a pain for a couple of weeks, but over the weekend it got worse and worse. On Monday night, I resorted to swishing posh whisky around my tooth, to numb it so I could sleep. At cask strength, 55 ABV, it worked. It also numbed my tongue. I funny normally keep large volumes of whisky in my mouth, and was quite different from sipping it. It was bizarre spitting out the whisky, something I have never done before. And first thing on Tuesday morning, I called my dentist, who had a cancellation and could fit me in the next day.
Yesterday was just an exploratory phase, as my dentist poked about, using pain as a diagnostic tool. The fact that my tooth didn't react to an instrument cooled down to -40°c (or so he said) is what told him the tooth was dead. My more explosive reactions told him where the nerves were as he rootled around in the three or - he explained with interest - four roots. I'd have thought one would know whether a tooth had three or four roots - that there wouldn't be much variation - but apparently I'm wrong. And he reckoned I should be passed that he took the time to check (since otherwise it would have been more painful).
Still, an hour is an awfully long time to sit with your jaw stretched wide open, in pain. Afterwards, I picked up some antibiotics which the dentist didn't want me to take - he reckoned he'd sterilised the infection, but wanted me to have antibiotics in case it flared up again.
Maybe because of the hour at the dentist, maybe because of the bacterial infection in my mouth, or maybe because of my hangover, once home, I went to bed, feeling sorry for myself, and ate currant buns.
So I was - well, a touch hungover.
And then I had to spend an hour at the dentist, my mouth wide open, as he used pain as a way to explore my tooth. My pain.
I have been seeing a bit too much of my dentist. I know him quite well - I have been going to the same dentist for twenty years - but frankly in the last year I have spent rather took much time in his company.
Since 1986, when I had a childhood filling replaced, I had gone twenty six years without any dental work at all. I was quite pleased with my teeth, proud even.
But in the last year, they have got their own back, punishing me for fifty years of profligacy. Or, as my dentist said, I'm probably just reaching the age at which teeth start to fail. (He reckoned that this generation is seeing all sorts of problems with their teeth that previous generations didn't - because they'd have lost all their teeth by now.)
Back in November, it became apparent that I had a cracked molar, which was removed in January (after I ummed and ahhed about having an implant. I decided not, since it seemed purely cosmetic, and expensive to boot. For a tooth no one would notice was gone). It was the first toothache I had had since adolescence.
A couple of weeks later, a bit fell off another tooth, requiring a trip back to my dentist.
And now another toothache has been revealed to have been caused by an infection in a tooth apparently long dead, and requiring possible hours of root canal work.
I had had a pain for a couple of weeks, but over the weekend it got worse and worse. On Monday night, I resorted to swishing posh whisky around my tooth, to numb it so I could sleep. At cask strength, 55 ABV, it worked. It also numbed my tongue. I funny normally keep large volumes of whisky in my mouth, and was quite different from sipping it. It was bizarre spitting out the whisky, something I have never done before. And first thing on Tuesday morning, I called my dentist, who had a cancellation and could fit me in the next day.
Yesterday was just an exploratory phase, as my dentist poked about, using pain as a diagnostic tool. The fact that my tooth didn't react to an instrument cooled down to -40°c (or so he said) is what told him the tooth was dead. My more explosive reactions told him where the nerves were as he rootled around in the three or - he explained with interest - four roots. I'd have thought one would know whether a tooth had three or four roots - that there wouldn't be much variation - but apparently I'm wrong. And he reckoned I should be passed that he took the time to check (since otherwise it would have been more painful).
Still, an hour is an awfully long time to sit with your jaw stretched wide open, in pain. Afterwards, I picked up some antibiotics which the dentist didn't want me to take - he reckoned he'd sterilised the infection, but wanted me to have antibiotics in case it flared up again.
Maybe because of the hour at the dentist, maybe because of the bacterial infection in my mouth, or maybe because of my hangover, once home, I went to bed, feeling sorry for myself, and ate currant buns.