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'yleh 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.