Recently curiosity got the better of me and I had a look at one of those sites that is supposed to reveal who is linking to you. On the whole, nothing came up that I don’t already know about. I didn’t realise, though, that I might also come across blogs that just happen to mention you. Too much information? Oscar Wilde said that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about, and I can see how that might be true for some people, but I am not yet sure where I stand with this. Anyway, so I came across someone who quite liked what she had read, and some of my photos of the Scottish holiday, and urged people to give it a look, even though she reckoned they might be put off by the wording of my profile. Ok, fair enough. But then she said that the blog was too full of medical matters for her tastes. This did baffle me, because I really don’t think I do much on those, unless you count the fact that I talk about M.E. I really have very little to say about trips to the GP to talk about blood test results and the fact that there is nothing they can offer me except for repeat prescriptions of co-proxamol when required – more of which at the end of the year when it is to be withdrawn. But I should warn this, or any other person who doesn’t like such things, that the next section of this post is about Going To The Dentist.
Tomorrow I am going to the dentist. This is in my top three things of what I most hate doing in life. At this very moment it may even be number one. I was born with dreadful teeth. Well not literally, but they were a disaster waiting to happen. I had my first fillings aged 5 from a dentist in the German village where I then lived who thought nervous children should be dealt with sternly. I was so scared I piddled on his floor once, which served him right. Aged 7 I had already experienced abscesses, extractions and laughing gas (I didn’t), root canal by age 10 and the conviction that if I no longer had to go to the dentist my life would be bliss. From age 16 to 26 I just didn’t go. Of course I paid, and have done, one way or another, ever since. People with M.E. do not, as a rule react well to local anaesthetic and I am no exception. Given the nature of my problems, (and look how restrained I am – I have no intention of describing them), it is not realistic to have treatment without anaesthetic, and I usually need about three -even then I jump in the seat. Truly, I do not know which I fear most – the treatment itself or its aftermath.
Having suffered the consequences of previous cowboy dental treatment, I go private and pay huge amounts of money. For this, I have to acknowledge, I get Mozart and Vivaldi in the background, a beautiful black leather reclining chair, coffee and tea facilities, Vogue and Horse and Hound in the waiting room which has paintings by local artists on the walls and free miniature tubes of toothpaste in the loo. I also get a quantity of time that wouldn’t be available on the NHS. Some of this time is taken up with the dentist telling me that all my life’s problems, including M.E. would have been sorted if I’d come to him earlier and allowed him to do unspeakable things to my jaw so as to correct my Bite.” He has a thing about Bites. It is his speciality. I listen and do not argue. I need every shred of his good will. My palms sweat. The necessary work begins.
Pray for me now and at the hour of the dentist.