And the next drama is upon us. Teeth. Decaying
ones. Past the point of no return. Five of them.
Milk teeth. Baby teeth. To be extracted. Oh. My.
God. I still feel sick. I am heart sore at this latest piece of
news. Is religious brushing not
sufficient anymore? It seems not. Diet today, it transpires, is a huge factor
in tooth decay. Much worse than when I
was growing up. There are all sorts of
hidden horrors within. Added to that, today’s
children have greater and ready access to juices, fizzy drinks, junk food and sugary
snacks. Who knew that the occasional innocent 10p mix up was so safe? Ironic
then that fizzy drinks are never given to our boys. They do, however, enjoy a drop of the diluted
stuff. That stops today. It is now strictly reserved for a special
occasion. I’ve been assured that
sometimes milk teeth are just that little bit weaker and the current condition
of Conor’s teeth bears no indication on the future wellbeing of his adult ones. Little solace. The decay is so bad in some of his molars
that it could very possibly cause nerve damage which is bad news, very bad news
indeed, for the dormant adult teeth.
There are a couple of options, however.
He could have them extracted in the clinic one by one via the usual Lidocaine
route or have them whipped out, one through to five, under a light general anaesthetic
in the hospital. Oh, goody! Which one
will I pick? Neither of them are good options as far as I am concerned. Conor complained of a tooth ache a couple of months
ago and was quite upset about it. I am
not without empathy despite never suffering from an “ache tooth” myself. My child was upset, in pain and crying hard. It doesn’t matter where that pain is coming
from; it hurts me as a mother when my child is distressed. So I took him to the dentist. I was fully expecting it to be the same
scenario as last July; a temporary filling.
Not so this time. The dental nurse checked off on a score card, how good,
or in this case how bad I had been in relation to my son’s dental care. At the same time the dentist expected a six
and a half year old boy to answer silly inane questions when his gloved hands were
in the child’s mouth. The first time I
heard the word extraction I mentally gasped.
My hand tightened into a fist the second time. The third time, I can't remember what my
reaction was. And when he reached the
grand sum total of five and launched straight into how my baby’s baby teeth
needed to be whipped out while he would be asleep, my heart was racing, my
mouth was dry and there was a roaring in my ears. You’re joking, me! Please tell me you’re winding me up! But no, there it was; in blue biro, hard
evidence that Conor’s mother, which would be me, was extremely remiss in the care
of his baby teeth. Conor’s first tooth
appeared when he was just 12 weeks old.
It appeared after a small fussing session, one I attributed to the hot
weather we were having at the time. That
was the one and only indication that he was getting his teeth. He sailed through the rest of the teething
process after that. A perfect, teething
baby. People told me he had an early
tooth because I took calcium supplements when I was pregnant. They also say, the later they get their
teeth, the longer they hang onto them.
Please, no more advice or old wives tales. It’s not worth it. I can beat myself up all by my own self thank
you very much. I don’t need cod ology to
help me. Then the out of body experience
was being reversed by the dentist asking me in his abrupt manner if that was
ok? He was handing me a card with an appointment date on it and an
antibiotic. Ok? No, it bloody well was not ok to whip out
five milk teeth just like that. And
what’s that antibiotic for? Almost as if
it was an afterthought, he explained Conor had a gum infection and this was why
he wasn’t sleeping at night. First I
heard of his insomnia. I pulled myself
together, put an end to the goldfish impression and asked if I could get a
second opinion. Monday 9th
July I got that second opinion. I was very
much aware this paid for diagnosis could well match the first one but I was
fervently hoping otherwise. Oy vey. It
was not to be on this occasion. The only
difference was the new dentists better bed side manner, approach and attitude
which, despite the crap verdict, put me at ease and reassured me somewhat. I still cannot believe I had to pay thirty
euro for that, something the school dentist could have, no, should have taken time with. His rushed and impersonal manner made me
distrust him. So back we had to go to be
told “I told you so.” This time I had no
other option but to bring all four boys with me. It is an emergency clinic
which means you are required to be there before 9.30am. They don’t open shop until 10am. We were the only ones there. There were a couple of magazines on the table
going back to June of last year to occupy parents and not so much as a plastic
rattle to amuse waiting children so I didn’t appreciate the cranky security
guard from downstairs taking it upon himself to roar up at my boys to sit down
and be quiet when all they were doing was walking around. So I ignored him with just a little bit of a
dirty look. That day was not the day to mess with me. Eventually I was given a couple of forms to
consent and if it wasn’t bad enough, to add insult to injury there was the
possibility that any other loose teeth might need to be taken out too. Conor has three wobblers in the front. Genuine tooth fairy ones. I kept telling myself, it’s teeth. It’s only teeth. Baby teeth at that. But it all seemed so dramatic. I was traumatised
by the image of five bloody holes in his mouth even if he wasn’t. And then I had to catch and deal with another
curveball thrown at me. The stupid car
is acting up. The clutch that, for one
shaky minute, almost threatened our seaside holiday is still crook and the car is
looking likely to be admitted into its own hospital thus rendering it
impossible for me to travel with Conor to the hospital. He will be in perfectly good, maybe even
better hands, those of his daddy’s, but aren’t mothers supposed to be with
their children when they’re in hospital.
The fact that it was all one big adventure for Conor made it much easier
for me. In the end he climbed into the
jeep with his daddy’s phone in hand, ready to amuse himself with a new game on
the trip to the dental hospital. I stood
at the front door with his three brothers and we waved him off. I was greatly reassured that morning by other
people who had found themselves in the same situation and had first-hand
experience with the dental hospital. I
am most grateful to you all. We mothers
are own worst enemies but I made damn sure Conor was never made aware of my
nervous disposition. My relief was
almost tangible later on when I received the phone call I had been waiting for.
In his own words Conor told me that it stung a little when he woke up but they
gave him special medicine and he was fine after that. He was even able to eat the yogurt I had sent
up with him. I was greatly relieved at
his joviality and bounce-back-ability but still got a jolt when I saw him. To me he looked pale and there were definite
traces of blood on his lips. He didn’t
get to see what his mouth looked like but he still delighted in showing
me. Yep, there they were. The five bloody holes I had been
dreading. He was none the worse for his ordeal. Clearly
none the worse as his next question proved:
how much money will the tooth fairy give me for my teeth? We went to the shop that afternoon to
purchase mouth friendly treats like ice-cream and the man at the checkout took
all of my money. I didn’t think Conor
would accept that so I toyed with reminding him that he left all of his teeth
in the dental hospital. But that would
that be really mean so I settled instead for a small pile of coins under his
pillow. Clearly, I was also over my
fright! I think it’s fair to say there
is a new OCD trait in the house: that of
teeth brushing.
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