By Laura Hutchinson
I’LL be returning home from New York with two less teeth. Certainly not something I had included in my itinerary before arriving, but after several days of jaw-numbing pain, I had to fit it in. No sooner had I arrived in Rochester than one of my back teeth started giving me grief. And, of course, it only got worse. And when handfuls of Tylenol and Advil proved useless against the agony, I was forced to visit an emergency dentist.
And they certainly don’t make it easy for you in the States. After filling out two forms, the receptionist gave me no end of hassle over the fact that I wasn’t American and that Ireland doesn’t have zip codes. I went in with a pain so bad I wanted to rip my own jaw off; I left with an anger so vicious I wanted to rip the receptionist’s head off (later confirmed by the fact that, when my blood pressure was taken, it was unusually high).
I was hoping beforehand that it was just a minor infection that could easily be treated with a short course of antibiotics. Unfortunately, after the dentist took X-rays, she told me my bottom left wisdom tooth, which had yet to come up, was impacted and could easily be treated by slicing my gum open, drilling some bone away, and ripping the whole thing out of my mouth with fancy pliers.
And then it got worse because, as I was flying into Manhattan two days later, she recommended I wait until after the flight to get it done. Which meant two more days of some of the worst pain I’ve ever known.
Normally, I hate flying, but knowing that this particular flight would bring me closer to removing the demon tooth calmed my nerves. Until we started to take off, that is, and the plane suddenly began jerking from side to side, and remained turbulent for several minutes.
So not only was I suffering from a pain I hoped was worse than childbirth (otherwise I’ll be damned if I’m putting myself through that too), but I was also on a terror-filled flight.
It’s probably the only time in my life I actually would have welcomed the plane becoming a fiery inferno – anything to take my mind off the pain in my tooth.
Eventually touching down in JFK airport, the first thing I did was take a taxi to a Manhattan dental surgery. Arriving with several suitcases in tow, I was confronted with yet more paperwork. Luckily, they were a little more forgiving of my Irish roots. Pity I couldn’t say the same for my wisdom tooth roots. After a long consultation with the dentist (longer than usual, I imagine, because the fire alarms kept going off), we decided that I would be sedated for the horror show, and that he may as well remove the two wisdom teeth on the left side, as I’d eventually have the same problem with the upper tooth too.
One short snooze later and I was full of Novocaine, less full of teeth, and ready to go. My conversation with the dentist around the royal wedding and how I couldn’t care less about it, nor understand the American fascination with it, was but a distant, hazy memory. My swollen face, prescription for the world’s strongest painkillers and antibiotics, and my melted credit card were an unpleasant, unwanted memento.
All I need now is to choke on my stitches in the middle of the night and for the hotel to burn down around my ears to really make this a holiday to remember. But on the plus side, I’m pretty sure it would make for a great country and western song.