Tooth will out - a tragicomedy in four acts

BEFORE

Hercule Poirot spends a considerable amount of time dithering before visiting his dentist, who is later murdered. 

Adrian Monk is so nervous he doesn't manage to get out of his chair at the dentist's reception. Monk isn't even a patient there. He's just gone to speak to the dentist. 

Forcible tooth extraction is a well-known form of torture, if spy thrillers are to be believed. 

And have you watched Freddy?  Not Krueger. This one's a recent thriller from Bollywood about a dentist. I haven't watched it because of certain sad instances (can't say more because spoiler), but I HAVE read its Wikipedia page. 

There is nothing as terrifying as being strapped to a semi-horizontal seat, neither laid back nor upright, as a man in a mask advances with a dangerous-looking drill. 

I'm having my wisdom tooth extracted. And I'm terrified. Coupled with my general anxiety and creative imagination, and watching my much-surgeried mother admit to it hurting when being injected in the gums, my perusal of various and sundry books and TV series of the crime variety (where the fear of going to the dentist is often highlighted as a comic bit) has put me in an ever-increasing foul mood as the extraction date steadily approaches. 

When Ma was to go to the dentist to get two teeth extracted, I acquired what I thought was a psychosomatic pain on the right side of the mouth. Like all illnesses in Bengali homes, I thought it would subside in a day. I thought it was my upper right wisdom tooth that has made several short appearances over the years. Anyway, to say the pain didn't subside would be an understatement. I could hardly open my mouth by the time I accompanied Ma to the dentist's. Pestered by my mother miming asking the doctor about it (she wasn't allowed to speak for a while, an order she blatantly flouted five minutes after getting it), I told the dentist there was some pain... He said what I had thought was a proper tooth for so long was actually a wisdom tooth that had grown unimpeded from the upper jaw and was now trying to burrow into the lower jaw. 

Such impeccable medical assessments are par for the course for me. When I was in school I used to think it was normal for people to have lower vision in a single eye compared to both eyes together. I was developing myopic vision. So it came as less of a surprise than usual when I realised that I don't actually have fewer teeth in my lower jaw than the upper one. I just had a precocious wisdom tooth. 

So, anyway, I was prescribed medicine and told to visit a week later to get the offender extracted. I have been plagued by bouts of nervousness since. 

The last time I visited a dentist was when I was six, maybe. I have since kept away from that particular kind of doctor through a vigorous regime of dubious oral hygiene and simple avoidance. But my fate seems sealed now. As I prepare to go forth into the terrifying territory of tooth extraction, I, who doesn't bat an eyelid at injections or surgical procedures on the rest of my body nor is squeamish about blood and gore, am battling horrifying scenarios suppied by me fertile mind. 

Are my frequent bouts of nauseous anxiety the result of the current heatwave ravaging my city or am I preparing for the plausible outcome of death at the dentist's? Will the dentist be able to reach the tooth concerned, which lies at the very end? Might he not mistakenly remove the one next to it? Who knows? Not me.

D-DAY

I had prepared myself for the twin terrors: operation tooth, at the unGodly hour of 10.30 am. I, who wakes up at 1 pm every day. 

Typical of us, we hadn't heard the dentist when he mentioned the appointment time the previous week: noon. So, there we were at the locked clinic, Ma, me and Baba (I brought him along for moral support. Baba is by far the weakest link in our chain of fearlessness. I'm catching up to Ma somewhat. But there's safety in numbers. And Baba would buy ice cream. And I don't really understand myself). 

Ma called up the doctor, who said he'd arrive in 20 minutes. So we walked up to my mamarbari to wait out the waiting time. Why did my chhotomama think it was a good idea to talk about his root canal procedure and the number of injections he received I will never know. Chhotomami stroked my head as I lay it in her lap and fed me juice. 

The dentist was true to his word and arrived by 11 am and I did my dead-girl-walking bit accompanied by the parents. 

I tried to talk the doctor out of the procedure, assuring him my pain was gone and was it really necessary to just take out a full-grown tooth just because it was where it wasn't supposed to be? But whoever listens to the enlightened? So, I took the more cowardly decision to go to THE CHAIR first. There was a chance that I'd cleanly faint away if I had to wait till my mom got her tooth fixed, and then we'd have to wait longer for me to go through the thing, and it would become a vicious cycle of terror-trauma-trouble-terror. 

THE CHAIR

First, there was a bitter aerosol sprayed into my mouth. Then there was an Xray. I admit I shut my eyes when the doctor was filling up a syringe for fear of throwing up on him and bringing an embarrassing end to my much-loved life. 

There was, in reality, minimal discomfort when I was given the injections. The first didn't even hurt. The second one was supposed to hurt a little, but the only issue I had with it was that it felt like the liquid was going down my throat. There was no pain. Then, after a few minutes, as it felt like the right sides of my tongue and mouth were swelling up, the doctor told me to basically unhinge my jaw and advanced with equipment. I shut my eyes an gave myself over to fate. 

I AM REFORMED!!!! There was NO PAIN. It was a big tooth. I AM ALIVE! I will write the dentist into my meagre last will and testament. 

THE AFTERMATH

I have had ice-cream. I have napped. I have taken my oldest to get his vaccine at the vet's (it was scheduled. Not because it was World Veterinary Day) and they packed cake and juice for us since Ma and I couldn't eat then. I have had juice. I have sipped cold water. I have made coffee, cooled it for an hour, added ice cubes  to chill it and drank it. I have also bought mousse to eat because I will NEVER LIKE DALIA AGAIN! But the anaesthesia is gradually wearing off. And there is a dull ache building in the space where I once had a tooth. But there is an anti-pain pill in the near future. I have just been told I can also eat cooled instant noodles. There is hope. 

There is also a miniscule lingering thought: did the dentist loosen the tooth next door while pulling out the wisdom tooth today? Only time will tell.