h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Before I found an NHS dentist in London, I tried to find one in Wales. I went through the Yellow Pages, phoning dentist after dentist, but even the private surgeries had full patient lists. Wales has roughly three dentists for every 20,000 people. I eventually got myself onto the list of a private dentist an hour's drive away, and went to see him with my excruciatingly sore tooth.

The surgery was grimy, its waiting-room tiny. On the receptionists' desk was a rusting tray holding a grim assortment of red-stained instruments. Feeling nervous, I visited the toilet, which had a broken seat and no soap or towels. The dentist returned from his lunch a little late; he slouched into the waiting room with huge bags under his eyes, his off-white surgeon's coat full of creases, and beckoned me to follow him. He wore no mask when leaning over to examine me, and his breath reeked. His gloves smelled as though he had been eating tuna with them.

"Need root surgery," he informed me in broken English. He injected me with one of those long, long needles that feel as though they'll come out through the back of your head any minute, then drilled away the enamel on the top of my tooth.

"Can you feel?" he asked.

I said I could still feel my tooth, but my tongue had gone numb. I explained that Novocaine doesn't always work on me.

"If you can't feel tongue, is worked," said the dentist, and drove a metal spike deep into my root.

"HUUUGGHHH! UH-UH, UH-UH!" I informed him, pushing his arm away and writhing around in the chair, snot and drool and tears dribbling copiously out of their various orifices. I swear to God, I'd never felt pain that even borders on that before. Even an abcess doesn't touch that kind of pain, and they say an abcess is worse than childbirth.

"Maybe we wait a few more minutes," said Sweeney Todd. We waited a few more minutes. "Okay now?" he asked.

It's said that the human brain has a poor memory for pain. This may be true, because even though I could still feel my tooth, I thought to myself, 'sod it; it'll only hurt badly for a minute, and I'll be prepared this time.' I certainly didn't want to return to this surgery a second time.

"Go for it," I said, and braced myself. He drove the spike into my root, and twisted.

"HUUUUHHH-GGH UH-UH HAAA!" I observed, repeating my previous behavior somewhat more wildly than before. I found myself leaning out of the chair, clinging to the dentist's leg, sobbing messily but unable to loosen my muscles to let go. The dentist was embarrassed. His assistant was totally taken aback. She didn't understand about the anaesthetic. She thought I was a nervy patient.

The dentist said, "I'll give you injection to kill nerve in tooth. Come back in three week when is dead."

He stood there awkwardly until I released his leg and lay back in the chair and opened my mouth for him. He injected my tooth three times with some foul-tasting fluid laced with the scents of tuna and gingivitis. Then I wobbled back into the waiting room, where Gothly's mum was waiting to drive me home. She was surprised at my pallor.

Three weeks later, he carried out the root surgery. It wasn't too painful this time, and Sweeney Todd looked a little less hung over—but he still had bad breath and no mask, and his gloves reeked of other people's mouths. Also, his nurse failed to turn up and he had to enlist the help of his receptionist, who knew nothing about dentistry. As she gawped, fascinated, into my mouth, Sweeney Todd one-handedly hooked out my root nerves with metal spikes, cauterised the broken blood vessels with more metal spikes, and spent ages packing my tooth with heck knows what and covering it over with a white filling—all the while breathing open-mouthed directly into my mouth. He ground the filling into shape with an industrial sander, while rinsing it with what tasted like raw fish-water, then said, "Bite."

I bit.

"How that feel?" he asked.

"Yup, feelth great," I lied, and got up and emptied all my savings into his till, and left. The filling was piled a bit high, but one more moment of that fish-water and I wouldn't have been able to stop heaving. Gothmum and I drank hot chocolate at the nearest cafe, but the taste of raw fish lingered in my mouth for nearly two days.

It was not long before the high filling loosened the filling of the tooth above it, finally dislodging it, causing the tooth to snap and crumble apart, with bits of it falling out gradually over several days. I decided to seek a dentist in London. The first one I phoned said brightly, "yes, we are taking on NHS patients. Would you like to make an appointment?"

So off I went to stay with brother Deswald for a few days.

As soon as I stepped into the surgery, I was reassured by the warm, clean smell of the place. The waiting room was spacious and carpeted, with padded leather chairs. The dentist himself, a Dr Jatan Patel, was youngish, bright, and well-spoken. He listened carefully to everything I said, and responded informatively. He wore a Persil-white, freshly-ironed coat and mask, and he smelled faintly of sandalwood (my favourite aroma). He gave a cheerful commentary as he examined me with his top-of-the-range machinery and sparkling tools. When he told me that my only option was to have my tooth removed, and that if he couldn't do it I'd have to be referred to the hospital, I wasn't fazed. I trusted him already.

Two days later, I returned to have my tooth pulled. After competently anaesthetising me, he went to work on my tooth with a variety of spikes and cutters, removing it chunk by chunk. He drove a spike painlessly into each root, but the pressure of my head against the seat, combined with the sharp cracking sounds, worried me. "It's not easy to break the bone around the tooth, is it?" I ventured hopefully.

The dentist tapped his maxilla and said, "I have to break the bone around here: it's the only way to get your tooth out."

I relaxed. As long as it was *supposed* to be broken, I didn't mind. I let him get on with it. The dental nurse described to me the pain I was likely to feel afterwards, so I'd know what to expect. She was spot-on. I'm glad she was there.

My roots were removed easily, and Dr Patel placed the bits of my tooth into a plastic bag so that I could take them home and photograph them for my ghoulish Internet friends.

http://public.fotki.com/Snailrind/for_illustrative/

I'm pleased at how well the pictures have come out, with the blood catching the light, and bits of flesh sticking to the roots in all their glory.

I'm going back in February.

*faints*

zd.....

I’m still not looking!

*staggers away*

AWESOME!!! Thanks for sharing..

Your poor mouth tho

Glad it's all worked out.

Sounds like you need medicin sans frontiers to come a help out in Wales.

All my dental work has been done privately in Kent and Sussex couldn't be more different from the picture you paint.

Oh my Lord....

I can't look at the pictures. I wish you all the best for February, SR. Hope everything goes smoothly.

Jabberwock

Did your dermestids get to work on these, or did you pickle them?

..and I thought I was bad...

No sign of the dermestids at the moment. I expect they'll be back in the spring to sort out my dental remains. Assuming the mites or psocids don't get there first.

My gum's healing up nicely. I should be able to chew on both sides of my mouth in a couple of days.

Ewwwuuurggh! *Shudder* That should be in THE PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES. Glad the thing is giving you gyp no longer, darling.

I've got a blog coming up, soon's I've time to write it, about Lizard Boy accompanying my stepdad on his recent trip to an American dentist. The experience sounded like, if those guys who made CITY OF LOST CHILDREN made short films, they (or Tim Burton) would have directed this one.

I don't know why Americans bother to go to Disneyland; the whole American living experience is like being in a *@#! children's theme park 24/7. Except when the mother's away and the telly goes OFF and the house is nice and *silent*

"Ewwwuuurggh! *Shudder* That should be in THE PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES."

Thank you. I'm looking forward to reading about Lizard Boy's experience.

"the whole American living experience is like being in a *@#! children's theme park 24/7."

Sounds like you're having a whale of a time.

I don't envy you i went to my local dentist some years ago and he accidently split my gum,he was trying to take out an abcess,(13 stiches later)and i could 'drive' home.I was told by a more knowledgeable dentist,i should have gone to hospital for the op!..Its all about money today!

Was that a private dentist, Carino?

This thread is just reinforcing all my fears! I’m doing that thing you see people doing watching horror movies, where they cover their eyes and then end up peeking anyway .

You need a sofa to hide behind.

Have you peeked at the photos yet, Quixote and Jabberwock?

Yes!

Weren’t as bad as I imagined, but still pretty nonetheless. I had to look, because I knew what I was imagining was worse and I needed to get those images out of my head!

Yay!

It's character-building, you know.

Yes. Yuk. Brave old you

J

That’s just a euphemism for psychologically damaging!