HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Ouch time

I wake up one morning with a toothache the size of the Ritz. “I’ll be brave,” I say stoically. “I’ll just go into the bathroom and amputate my head.” Bins reminds me that it’ll be much easier to visit the dentist. “He’s a nice guy! You like him!” This is true. He’s a good dentist. The walls of his clinic are covered with interesting art. He has classical music playing in the background as he drills. The goldfish in the waiting room aquarium are unusually energetic and they have the sweetest little turtle for company.

So of course Bins makes the appointment and I shelve my gory plan. He comes with me for moral support with Rocky, our wild raccoon buddy, tagging along. When we get to the clinic Rocky is totally fixated on the fish. “Wowowow!” he exclaims, watching the bright flashing bodies pirouetting around their tank, “they look really tasty!” I drag him away by the tail.

Soon Bins, Rocky and my dentist are staring into my mouth. “Yuck!” says Rocky, “what’s that black thing?” “A giant cavity,” says Dr K, in suave, UK-accented tones. He is surprisingly unconcerned about Rocky’s presence, wholly concentrated on the monstrosity at the back of my mouth. “It’s not surprising that you’re in pain,” he says. “But you’re also very lucky. The nerve’s not been exposed.”

He takes X-rays and shows me the wreckage: “If you recall, we gave this tooth a filling three years ago,” he says. But he had warned me it wouldn’t last. “So here we are now, with no option but a gold inlay.” Rocky’s eyes grow round. “GOLD?” he asks. “It’s cheaper than the other option,” says Bins, “which is ceramic.” I get an injection in my gum. “Ouch!” squeaks Rocky. “It doesn’t hurt,” I mumble, as the left side of my face goes numb.

Rocky curls around Bins’s shoulders to watch as Dr K clears away the debris that’s collected in the cavity. Water fountains up from around the tip of the drill. The nerve that’s lurking in there, sedated but very much alive, signals its displeasure with tiny flashes of pain, lightning shrieks. An assistant pokes around with a suction device, removing liquids.

“Now I’m laying the foundation for the filling,” says Dr K, to Bins and Rocky. Then he takes a wax-impression of the cavity so that the tiny bit of gold that goes in there fits exactly into place. Two days later, Bins, Rocky and I return for the second session. Dr K holds up a squiggly bit of dull gold, cast from the impression he took. “It’s like the lost-wax technique of metal sculpture,” he explains. “A very TINY sculpture!” says Rocky, fascinated. “You’re a very smart raccoon,” says Dr K. “I know,” says Rocky.

The doctor removes the temporary filling, applies cement, taps the inlay into place, polishes it and ta-daaa! Everyone cheers. “Better than cutting off your head, no?” asks Bins. “Sure,” I say. “Until the next time.”

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column