After the craziness of September I have had two weeks before Will and I leave to celebrate his birthday. We are headed to London and it is going to be a lot of fun. We have already made plans but not too many so we can sit back and enjoy just being in London. Don’t worry I will tell you all about it next week.
Recovering from our September house guests and preparing to leave didn’t leave a lot of time for fun activities and honestly, we were kind of tired. Plus the house needed so much work, which happens when you neglect it for two plus weeks while you have guests.
So after many days of cleaning and trying to re-normalize our schedules we feel good to leave again.
In between two things of semi noteworthiness happened.
First I had to go to the dentist for some, sort of, major mouth stuff; secondly we went to the Italian version of British Days with R & C.
First let’s talk about what it feels like to go to the dentist, or you could even apply some of this to going to the doctor, in a foreign country. I mean that’s really where my angst is so let me get it all out!
I think it is safe to say nobody, except maybe hypochondriacs, like going to any sort of medical professional. This is not to say that medical professionals are bad people. Nope, one of my favorite cycling friends is a fantastic dentist and if I still lived in Maryland I would be using his services. However, he is a little far away with a small thing like an ocean between us. And, let’s be frank, even though I enjoy cycling with my friend I still hate going to the dentist.
I take pretty good care of my mouth, brushing twice a day (mostly), flossing, using mouthwash, regular cleanings, blah, blah, blah. But I was gifted genetically with crappy teeth (thanks mom and dad!) So I have been visiting the dentist for dental work for most of my teenage into adult life and it doesn’t look like it is going to stop anytime soon.
I admit I get ridiculously nervous anytime I have to go to the dentist, it ranks right up there with other anxiety inducing fears, which I don’t have many of but the ones I do; Oofta! Seriously, one could just threaten to do dental work on me and I would give away any secrets I had (lucky for me I don’t have any and my life is pretty much an open book, you all know this since I write about it.)
So my crown has broken off at the gum line, and I have to get the tooth pulled and two implants put in.
Enter Italian dentist,
I sit as comfortable as I can manage in the chair, my heart rate has already begun to elevate. My eyes dart around the room taking in the “normal” looking dental equipment (I mean, I am in a foreign country for all I know they still use rusty pincer pliers to pull teeth.)
The dentist, a nice normal looking, older gentleman with a soft smile, starts conversing in Italian with his dental assistant. She hasn’t looked at me yet but she doesn’t have the same comforting smile, not a bad smile, just not as comforting. I realize that they are speaking too fast for me to make out any words with my limited, slow paced, elementary Italian. And honestly for all I know they are speaking words that I will never know because unless it is milk, cat, please and thank you it is way out of my realm. (Oh, I probably know how to say bread too.) They glance at me, converse some more, my palms start to sweat and he turns and says in heavily accented english, “we ready to start”
I have had an implant put in before and I understand the rudimentary process, you cut open the gum line, drill into the jaw, screw in a little metal post and then sort of sew the gum line around the post. Then you wait for it to heal before adding the crown. I just have never had it done when the dentist and I speak a different language (not that an english speaking dentist would have made me less anxiety ridden.)
All of the equipment comes out of the usual sterilized sealed packages and I am already covered in one of those weird paper cloth bib things that are supposed to catch your spit or…blood
Another assistant hands me a small plastic cup with pink liquid “rinse 10 seconds and spit” she tells me, I recognize her before as one of the better english speakers in the office and find comfort in having a language ally.
Then they clip a heart monitor on my finger – well I already know my heart is racing but it seems to still be at an acceptable level to them because they continue.
The dentist, who does speak english when he isn’t in a hurry (when he is distracted he only has a couple words, “open, close, relax”) pulls the most dreaded item ever off the tray in front of me. The hated syringe full of anesthesia. I swear to all that is holy fewer things inspire more terror than that long needle with the giant thumb depressor heading towards my already whimpering mouth.
“Relax and open”
I opened my mouth and worked on relaxing it while simultaneously my sphincter tightened, my hands shook and my saliva glands went into overdrive. So out comes the little mouth vacuum to get rid of the pooling, throat choking, extra liquid, produced by my own body, inspired by anxiety, spit. There seemed to be some annoyance about having to suck out my mouth so early in the game but the assistant was mostly capable, only letting me choke a little bit.
OMG! The pink mouth stuff worked. I never felt a thing, well, as far as the shots go.
I need to now mention that America is all about the patient comforts, this applies to doctors and dentists. Somewhere along the line American professionals have begun treating patients with kid gloves. Don’t make them uncomfortable by accidentally touching their face while actually poking around in their mouth doing a dental procedure is the one that comes to mind. (I have other opinions about doctors visits but that is for another day.) I can safely say that dentists in Italy, at least mine, don’t worry too much about the kid gloves; they worry about getting the job done. At one point the assistant was leaning her whole hand on my cheek and the dentists elbow was in my eye while he tried to screw in the metal implant. I realized that despite the anxiety I felt while having my mouth worked on, which was not really a symptom of being in a foreign country but more a symptom of not liking the dentist, I actually had no problem with the fact that they felt they had to touch my face and even use my head for leverage to get the job done.
Hmmmm, score a point for the Italian dentist.
“Open, close, relax…” and on it went but finally we were done and I was mostly not in bad shape. I mean, other than having metal posts sticking out of my jaw and watching him stitch up my gums.
Ick, having your skin stitched is bad enough but watching that little curved needle with the thread attached going in and out of your mouth is just painful. Even if you can’t really feel it.
It took way less time than I thought it would and my sphincter finally relaxed though I am not sure my gut did. When he was finished he said he didn’t want to give me antibiotics unless it was necessary; to call him if my mouth became inflamed or I had a fever. Thank goodness because I had no idea how to tell him which antibiotics I can take, none of them would have to be my answer. FYI, most antibiotics give me a bad reactions and I try to never take them. Another thing that Europeans seem to do differently than Americans is pain pills, he didn’t offer me any, and I didn’t expect him too. I remember having a conversation with a lady in Germany where she told me that 800 ibuprofen was too much medicine for her.
Wow, most of us can’t live without our tylenol or advil.
Anyway, I am not any fonder of dentistry than I was before and having your dental staff speak in a foreign language does nothing to alleviate those fears. However, they seem to have done a great job, six days after the fact I have been eating whatever I wanted since the procedure. Using salt water rinses regularly and my mouth gets tired and sore from eating or having food poke into the gum line but it could be worse. I was actually hoping to have a painful mouth as an excuse for not eating fish and chips while I am in London this week but I will just skip the fish, yuck, and eat the chips like I always do.
A quick note about Italian British Days (it is almost like a theme), it was what I would call steampunk days more than British Days. Though maybe my UK friends can drop me a note and let me know if the whole Steampunk thing is really a big deal there. I like steampunk, I have steampunk costumes but it was not what I was expecting. They also had a tightrope walker, a car show, a dog show, and a lot of food that was not British. Barely any fish and chips. And no tea! What the heck Italy, you can’t have a British days without tea, what would the Queen say?!
Regardless we had a nice afternoon and evening with R & C.
I will work to get some more authentic “British” pictures this weekend!
Until next week, I hope your adventures are as glorious as mine,
Ciao miei Amici