The Painful Tooth

Amazing Animals At The Dentist Photos (1)

Um, can you open a little wider?

“Well, the truth hurts,” muttered my dentist, “or, should I say, the ‘tooth’ hurts!”  I groaned at the pain in my mouth, and at the pun.

He peered back into my gob, “I think I can save your molar, but it’s a 50/50 chance.”

Those were pretty good odds, so I gave him the thumbs up; which was all I could do with my jaws prised apart. Because, in spite of my best efforts, and lots of flossing, I’d managed to crack a back tooth.

“Remember, avoid pork crackling and hard lollies in future,” the dentist warned me as I reeled from his surgery, “and see how you go over the weekend,” he added.

It suddenly dawned on me that getting dental work done last thing on a Friday afternoon was not very smart.  Much cleverer people would have picked a weekday morning appointment, so if they noticed anything wrong once the anaesthetic wore off, they’d be able to high-tail it back to the tooth-yanker the same day.

Anyway, I survived the weekend, but the jury’s still out on whether or not my split molar will stay in my head. On a medical scale of 1 to 10, it’s barely a blip, but I’ve become a bit attached to my teeth; all of them.

Apart from surviving regular soakings in sugary and alcoholic drinks, they’ve been hit, knocked, punched, chipped, kicked and on two memorable occasions, head-butted.  And people will tell you soccer is a non-contact sport.

Up ‘til now, I’ve always come back smiling; once I’d spat out all the blood.

Of course, I’m still hoping to have a full set of ivories when they lay me to rest at, say, one hundred and eleven, but the odds on that happening aren’t real good.

And that’s the painful ‘tooth’.

About Greg Bray

The scribbler behind the 'On a Lighter Note' column.
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