The dentist says I’ve got dry socket. It’s not as funny as it sounds
A few days ago I had to have two teeth removed from my mouth (which is where I keep them).
It has not been a pleasant experience.
Then again, I’ve never really been a fan of the dentist. Every visit calling back memories of unpleasant after school appointments as a child.
The sense of dread I’d feel, slowly growing through the day, putting me off my PE, or the peculiar experience of making me want maths lessons to last forever.
And it always seemed to rain. Mind you, the less pleasant thoughts in my memory bank tend to add rain as an expression of mood.
Our dentist had a surgery close to my school, making for a short, sombre walk with my mum.
It was a converted terraced house near the shops that was somewhat dark and dingy, as was the style at the time. Check-in at reception and a gallows-like walk up the rickety staircase.
My dentist back then had a beard, an aura that intimidated the twelve year-old version of me, and the unmistakable aroma of tobacco, as was also the style at the time.
Steve Wright in the Afternoon would be playing on the radio. This was back in his Radio One pomp; the full posse, with Mr Angry, Fillet O’Fish, and Sid the Manager, who used to say hello when he meant to say goodbye.
Wrighty and his posse would play in the background, flitting between light-hearted bantz, another ‘true story’, or the latest hit from Wham! or the Bangles.
Its overt jollity jarring with the dark room, the overhead spotlight of terror, and the pointy implements meticulously laid out on an adjacent tray. It’s clearly where Tarantino got his inspiration for the ear snip scene in Reservoir Dogs.
And then there was the drill. A device so terrifying it should have its own theme tune; like Jaws or the bloke from Halloween.
There was one occasion where I required a small filling — yes, I ate sweets as a child — and the fear grabbed at me so much I made a dash for it. My mum, somewhat embarrassed, tried to retrieve me. The dentist remained impassively still.
As if to say: There’s nowhere to run, no chance of escape.
Anyway, I’m a lot older now, and much braver — although I haven’t got a sticker to prove this, so you’ll have to take my word for it.
My 2024 dental surgery is a different place.
Gone is the darkness, replaced by glaring white sci-fi surgical. Steve Wright is now Sara Cox and the dentist is, in another sign of this relentless aging process, younger than me.
And she’s very nice.
Of course, the implements remain as pointy and awful as ever, if a little shinier. And the overhead lamp still gives off major War of the Worlds ‘I may disintegrate you’ vibes.
“So, we’re all agreed these teeth need to come out,” my dentist said.
Given that the alternative was a re-build treatment that would have put a major dent in a Premier League footballer’s weekly wages, then yes, we were agreed.
She suggested heavily that it was going to be a bit of an ordeal.
Naturally this first meant injecting a tremendous amount of local anaesthetic into my mouth; which quickly turned my head into an unfeeling balloon. Watching the news recently, it occurs to me that there are a number of men my age for whom this is a standard.
Once my head had passed the prod test and I’d been suitably humiliated when liberally spraying mouthwash around the room whilst trying to rinse, it was time for the main event.
My dentist was correct. It was a bit of an ordeal.
Implements were used. There was pushing, levering, and eventually pulling. My teeth were reluctant to leave. After all, it’s the only home they’d ever known and change can be daunting, as we all know.
At one point during the pulling and yanking phase (oh, grow up!), the battle between dentist, forceps and teeth got pretty violent, making my head wobble and shake as though I were on a rollercoaster or being eaten by a shark in the early morning sunlight off the coast of Amity Island.
The dentist asked her assistant to hold my head in place, which meant clamping her hands either side of my numb and rubbery ears.
It didn’t work.
Days went by, dentists took shifts round the clock, and there was talk of taking things to the UN to try and break the deadlock.
Just when all hope seemed lost, with morale at its lowest ebb, the teeth relented. They’d put up an admirable defence, but just like the 300 of Sparta, they ultimately fell.
So, what the fu@k has this got to do with dry sockets?
I was told that things might get a little uncomfortable for a week or more after the extraction.
Again, my dentist was spot on.
I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so excruciating I must say. On day four, I’d had enough and called back. If the option of putting my teeth back in was on the table, I might have gone for it.
“Is it really supposed to hurt this much?” I asked (this is likely why I haven’t got the bravery sticker).
“Hmm, I think you’re suffering from dry socket,” the dentist said, with an expression that I interpreted as trying not to laugh.
Yes, it sounds rude and funny. And much as I desperately wanted shout ‘fnar, fnar’ or ‘Ooo Matron,’ my mouth wasn’t in the mood.
“Uh,” is what I think I actually said.
Dry socket, I was told, happens when the clot that needs to develop to promote healing, either doesn’t happen, or doesn’t happen fully enough to protect the exposed nerves and bone.
And yes, the dentist added, that will really hurt.
Anyway, I’m getting better now.
I just thought you all ought to know.
COMING SOON: Why I used to be terrified of swallowing chewing gum.
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