![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
of dentistry, yet again
Mar. 10th, 2009 09:17 amWhat's your worst nightmare? Okay, wrong question. What nightmare keeps you up about once a week, and sometimes becomes so realistic that you 'wake up' in the dream to discover it's true? Mine is a bit specific, actually, but no less horrifying for it. Mine, you see, is teeth. Not just teeth in general, but very specifically my very front crown breaking off. This is a natural dream, as it happens periodically, hurts like hell. In fact, I wrote a fair few LJ articles about the last time it happened, in August 2007: It's a bit emo. My fear is one of pain, of expenses, and one of "what the fuck do I do?" It's at the very front of my mouth, and if it goes, I have nothing but a horrible little stubby tooth.
But the last crown was put in eighteen months ago and I'm careful with it. When my dentist in Liverpool finally gave up the ghost and went private, I made a conscious decision to get a dentist and private dental health insurance as soon as I graduated. (Theoretically, in the UK, you can have your dental care on the NHS, which still involves paying, but a massively reduced cost.) Besides, the rest of my teeth were healthy, mightmares aside.
You can imagine my outright horror, then, when on Sunday afternoon I heard distinctive crunching sound. I thought the crown has fractured. Imagine my increasing horror when I spat out my entire crown and what looked disturbingly like the remainder of the tooth.
Bless![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stupidore. She dealt with what felt like a fairly huge bout of panic, gently took me downstairs, and stood over me as I desperately phoned NHS Direct, and only laughed a bit when I pronounced my date of birth sounding like an Igor. The NHS lady was kind, gave me a number to phone in the morning for the Kirkcaldy emergency dentist, and told me to take painkillers. I had worked that part out for myself, but was grateful for the advice.
So, the next day I launched myself out of bed, having not slept due to the pain, and hurtled towards the phone like a ninja. It wasn't the number for the Kirkcaldy centre, it was a generic helpline. I cried down the phone, wailing about how it was at the front of my mouth, I was 21, why couldn't anyone give me advice about cosmeic proceedures as well as stopping the pain? Etc. That sounds a bit vain, but think how you would look if someone took off your front tooth, and left a gap accentuated by little black flecks and bits of crown? At 21? The woman tried to calm me down a bit, made a phonecall on my behalf, and got me fixed up for Kirkcaldy, who were under a promise to refer to the Dundee dentistry students if things were too awful. Sniffing, I accepted this and went off to Kirkcaldy, although rather intelligently I managed to park at the wrong hospital, and eventually made it to the dentists at a run, sweating and being generally a bit awful.
Once there - and after taking one look at me, the receptionist recoiled slightly - I was seen by a vile dentist, who wouldn't look me in the eye, or talk to me except to shout at me about my tongue piercing. I wasn't hopeful at this stage, but then went upstairs to get his boss. He was much kinder, peered at me, sympathised when I shot through the ceiling when he tried to put the crown back on, and generally seemed to think I was a good combination of a deserving case and an interesting dental puzzle. Either way, he asked me to wait for a bit, and eventually took me upstairs, to where the dentistry students did their thing.
(Yes, I know students aren't ideal, but quite frankly they're probably better on the theory than a qualified dentist, they're cheaper, and it's that or I have to use a private dentist and shell out about a grand.)
They were so, so good to me. They talked me down gently from the panic levels I'd been running at for about seventeenth hours, x-rayed me so see what was up, played Guess The Dental History (apparently I had a root canal as a child, Mum later confirmed this - who knew?), gave me a general check-up. Depending on what the x-rays showed, I was either going to have a post put into the healthy root, have an infection, or have a full extraction and have a plate denture for a while before getting a bridge put in. Luckily, I got the former option.
The depressing truth was that either way I had in fact lost the visible remainder of the tooth, but luckily there were some roots hanging in there for grim life, with no infection or root fracturing. Apparently I should have had a post put in a long time ago, but this didn't happen; luckily for me, I had two dentistry students who were very keen to get some practice is on root canals and how to fix them up and put in posts. Two slightly bungled injections, a root canal, a temporary post, some more drilling, superglue and a lot of supervision later, my old crown has been tentatively glued onto a small mental post which in turn has been drilled and then glued into my gum.
All this before lunch, too.
I'm going to be seen again a few more times - I get check-ups thrown in too, since they may as well practice everything on me while I'm there - for more root canals, to get fitted for a new crown, and to get the actual thing stuck to me on a permanent basis. I nearly hugged them for fixing me up, and hopefully on the cheap too. It's worth two hours of driving to and from Kirkcaldy. Unfortunately, temporary crowns means a month of eating a 'soft' diet. I've done it before, but it's not easy. Also the crown is slightly squinty, and drops a little, so once again I have a brand new smile. Super-duper.
I'm still a little sore today, but I ended up going to bed for about ten yesterday, and the sleep has really helped. Discovering my class to be cancelled, but not having enough time to go home, is a little peeving, but there we are. I have to go and find somewhere to have lunch now, preferably in a soup-based form.
I am, however, torn between massive gratefulness that I'm near a really good and apparently compassionate dentistry school, and irateness that it's impossible to get an NHS dentist. And that this bloody, bloody tooth won't just stay the fuck in.
So, flist, was your weekend this much fun?
But the last crown was put in eighteen months ago and I'm careful with it. When my dentist in Liverpool finally gave up the ghost and went private, I made a conscious decision to get a dentist and private dental health insurance as soon as I graduated. (Theoretically, in the UK, you can have your dental care on the NHS, which still involves paying, but a massively reduced cost.) Besides, the rest of my teeth were healthy, mightmares aside.
You can imagine my outright horror, then, when on Sunday afternoon I heard distinctive crunching sound. I thought the crown has fractured. Imagine my increasing horror when I spat out my entire crown and what looked disturbingly like the remainder of the tooth.
Bless
stupidore. She dealt with what felt like a fairly huge bout of panic, gently took me downstairs, and stood over me as I desperately phoned NHS Direct, and only laughed a bit when I pronounced my date of birth sounding like an Igor. The NHS lady was kind, gave me a number to phone in the morning for the Kirkcaldy emergency dentist, and told me to take painkillers. I had worked that part out for myself, but was grateful for the advice.So, the next day I launched myself out of bed, having not slept due to the pain, and hurtled towards the phone like a ninja. It wasn't the number for the Kirkcaldy centre, it was a generic helpline. I cried down the phone, wailing about how it was at the front of my mouth, I was 21, why couldn't anyone give me advice about cosmeic proceedures as well as stopping the pain? Etc. That sounds a bit vain, but think how you would look if someone took off your front tooth, and left a gap accentuated by little black flecks and bits of crown? At 21? The woman tried to calm me down a bit, made a phonecall on my behalf, and got me fixed up for Kirkcaldy, who were under a promise to refer to the Dundee dentistry students if things were too awful. Sniffing, I accepted this and went off to Kirkcaldy, although rather intelligently I managed to park at the wrong hospital, and eventually made it to the dentists at a run, sweating and being generally a bit awful.
Once there - and after taking one look at me, the receptionist recoiled slightly - I was seen by a vile dentist, who wouldn't look me in the eye, or talk to me except to shout at me about my tongue piercing. I wasn't hopeful at this stage, but then went upstairs to get his boss. He was much kinder, peered at me, sympathised when I shot through the ceiling when he tried to put the crown back on, and generally seemed to think I was a good combination of a deserving case and an interesting dental puzzle. Either way, he asked me to wait for a bit, and eventually took me upstairs, to where the dentistry students did their thing.
(Yes, I know students aren't ideal, but quite frankly they're probably better on the theory than a qualified dentist, they're cheaper, and it's that or I have to use a private dentist and shell out about a grand.)
They were so, so good to me. They talked me down gently from the panic levels I'd been running at for about seventeenth hours, x-rayed me so see what was up, played Guess The Dental History (apparently I had a root canal as a child, Mum later confirmed this - who knew?), gave me a general check-up. Depending on what the x-rays showed, I was either going to have a post put into the healthy root, have an infection, or have a full extraction and have a plate denture for a while before getting a bridge put in. Luckily, I got the former option.
The depressing truth was that either way I had in fact lost the visible remainder of the tooth, but luckily there were some roots hanging in there for grim life, with no infection or root fracturing. Apparently I should have had a post put in a long time ago, but this didn't happen; luckily for me, I had two dentistry students who were very keen to get some practice is on root canals and how to fix them up and put in posts. Two slightly bungled injections, a root canal, a temporary post, some more drilling, superglue and a lot of supervision later, my old crown has been tentatively glued onto a small mental post which in turn has been drilled and then glued into my gum.
All this before lunch, too.
I'm going to be seen again a few more times - I get check-ups thrown in too, since they may as well practice everything on me while I'm there - for more root canals, to get fitted for a new crown, and to get the actual thing stuck to me on a permanent basis. I nearly hugged them for fixing me up, and hopefully on the cheap too. It's worth two hours of driving to and from Kirkcaldy. Unfortunately, temporary crowns means a month of eating a 'soft' diet. I've done it before, but it's not easy. Also the crown is slightly squinty, and drops a little, so once again I have a brand new smile. Super-duper.
I'm still a little sore today, but I ended up going to bed for about ten yesterday, and the sleep has really helped. Discovering my class to be cancelled, but not having enough time to go home, is a little peeving, but there we are. I have to go and find somewhere to have lunch now, preferably in a soup-based form.
I am, however, torn between massive gratefulness that I'm near a really good and apparently compassionate dentistry school, and irateness that it's impossible to get an NHS dentist. And that this bloody, bloody tooth won't just stay the fuck in.
So, flist, was your weekend this much fun?
