Ow, comprehensively revisited
Got an email from a friend a little while ago: Dentist bad, worse, or unspeakably horrible?
Um . . .
The ‘unspeakable’ part might only be functional, ie can’t/don’t want to open my mouth, except that I managed to oversleep this morning* and it was an early appointment**. From this a long cascade of unfortunateness descends. When I finally woke up I looked at the clock, gave a someone-is-standing-on-my-tail hellhound yelp, banged into the first seven articles of clothing*** I could find, tore downstairs, scooped hellhounds out of their crate†, added All Stars†† to the array and hit the road running. The hellhounds are better at this last part than I am.†††
But by the time we got back from our truncated hurtle I was well into Panic Mode, so I had the cup of very, very, very strong tea but couldn’t really face lunch. And I hadn’t had time for my breakfast apple(s).‡ So I leaped into the Wolfmobile and shot off to Mauncester on zero food and a megakick of caffeine and sugar. I am a sane, responsible grown up. I am.
They scraped me off the ceiling at the dentist’s and pumped me full of anaesthesia. The kind with adrenaline, so I wouldn’t bleed so much. Have I mentioned that this was the first stage of my first implant? They’re going to slash open my gum and drill a hole in my jawbone. I was really looking forward to this experience. So the adrenaline-laced junk is a perfectly reasonable choice, and the ‘not bleeding so much’ part appealed to me. Except for the fact that after they filled me up like a swimming pool I started shaking so badly it was hard to read the magazine‡‡ I was holding, or perhaps that was my eyeballs vibrating in my skull. I was, you see, sent out to read in the hall while they turned the office into an operating theatre. Jeezum Crow. I’d have been terrified when I was finally waved back in if it hadn’t looked so much like a TV set.
LOUD NOISES. BLOOD. FISH ON THE CEILING.‡‡‡
Looks really good, said the dentist from R’lyeh jovially.
I am instructed in rolled-handkerchief biting, the correct application of packets of frozen peas, and how much ibuprofen I can take before I become the Incredible Hulk. And sent on my way. There’s a funny little peg sticking up in the middle of what used to be a gap in my teeth, and four extremely neat little stitches around the edges.
I got back to the mews, looked queasily at my rejected salad, and made another cup of tea. I put a cosy on my cup and took hounds out for a hurtle. And did I mention handbells? Thursday is handbells. I got back from hurtling, drank the extremely well steeped tea, and bolted back to the cottage to repel boarders, I mean, welcome my fellow ringers. Fernanda is still struggling with the basics of bob minor, and Niall, who is like this, kept me on the 3-4 which forced me to concentrate. Unfortunately Colin was there today too so then we had to ring major. Eight bells! I don’t ring major! And I have no brain! It’s all burnt up with adrenaline and caffeine and PAIN!§ And a certain lack of calories. I still haven’t had anything to eat. Food. Ewww. There’s got to be a better way.
Handbell ringers left. I hurtled hounds again. They’re still time-short, but they’ll just have to be time short today. I staggered down to the mews.
I am eating.§§ I may live. You can check in again tomorrow.
* * *
*How . . . not unusual
**Okay, as I count early.
*** Bra, knickers, two socks, jeans, tshirt, little hot pink cardigan with white polka dots
† Oooooh! An adventure! We like adventures! Will there be things to chase?
†† hot pink
††† I haaaaaaaaaate other dog owners! Hate! Hate! Hate! Hate! The rec ground beyond Warlock Gate has been discovered by way too many of the Exacerbated Fathead subheading of this generally unlovable^ clan. There’s one dog we’ve now met several times, always off-lead, always borderline aggressive—if my guys ever grow up and stop presenting as puppies, I’m going to be in the middle of canine gang warfare several times a frelling week. And yesterday we got jumped by an Alsatian about the size of Peter. Turned out he was wearing a muzzle, but I’d already had my heart attack at that point, you know? The owner’s girlfriend thought this was hysterical. If my hands hadn’t been full of leads I might have hit her, so what a good thing my hands were full of leads.
And today . . . those of a sensitive disposition might want to look away now . . . My Best Beloved Hot Pink All Stars are very old. Here’s a photo: Old. They were the driving force behind my desire to find waterproof shoe liners, okay? There are HOLES in the bottom of both soles. Waterproof shoe liners are so I can go on wearing them a little longer, especially on days of high trauma, like this one.
Now—do I have to remind you delicate flowers to look away?—contemplate stepping in dog crap with a hole in the bottom of your shoe (even when covered by a waterproof liner).
^ A few of our forum members excepted. And the owner of an adorable Pomeranian+ we meet occasionally around here.
+ No, really! She is my Pomeranian Conversion experience like my very-ex-British editor’s stud Pekinese was my Pekinese Conversion experience. Unfortunately I don’t dare tell you about my very-ex-British editor because he just might concievably know about this blog. He and his wife bred and raised wolfhounds . . . and Pekinese. And he introduced me to Eva Ibbotson’s books, so he is a Force for Good. Nobody’s perfect.
‡ Hot off the tree. This is really appalling timing for having to eat soft food for a few days.
‡‡ Kew, as in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Usually one of my favourite journals, but I may have just imprinted it with today’s events.
‡‡‡ He needs a new DVD. I’ve seen this one kind of a lot.
§ The anaesthesia has worn off. And I’m going through the arnica pretty much with both hands. Arnica works surprisingly well for most things for most people^, but you do kind of have to keep your nerve to begin with. I started off taking it about every five minutes and am now down to . . . um. Over an hour. I’ll take the ibuprofen if I have to to get through the night—fumbling for tiny white pills gets old when you’re trying to sleep—but at this rate of improvement I won’t have to.
^ And for incised wounds, like this one, you might throw in a staphysagria.
§§ Broccoli (somewhat overdone in the circs) and fish salad. I like broccoli. Get used to it.^ And the fish salad features Peter’s mayonnaise.
^ Actually . . . broccoli is a comfort food for me. Okay, I admit it. That’s sick.
Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.