Tuesday, May 19 ‘09
Mrs Bennet was feeling nervous. Tomorrow she was going back to have that dreaded tooth removed. She hadn’t felt right since her passing out saga. The thought of returning didn’t exactly fill her with much joy. It may well be a break from children but she could think of nicer places to go. Would she faint again? Could she go through with the procedure? Could she manage to stop thinking about what the dentist was doing? Would she be able to block out the horrible noise factor and think positive thoughts? The trouble was she had seen the torturous instrument responsible for extraction and it looked too similar to the contraption the builders had just used to pull up some tiles from the Bennets old kitchen floor. It was not a kind looking instrument. It looked like it could inflict pain and Mrs Bennet knew its relation would be back in her mouth tomorrow lunchtime.
She tried to take her mind off the matter. But every time she tried to eat something, it only reminded her that all was not well in her mouth. However the Darcys in the Dirt were getting on well now. With just three days left before every tool – including the macabre-looking instrument – walked out with their owners, bite-size Pemberley was a centre of noise and activity. The old kitchen was now part bathroom, part walk-in cupboard; the new kitchen was almost complete as Chief Mr Darcy grouted the tiles and secured wooden doors. And finally six months after the shed men had built her office, the electricity had been connected. The problem was, as the Bennets hadn’t been able to borrow all the money they had wanted, there were now no spare pounds to buy Mrs Bennet a desk or the additional luxury of her Mr Latte machine which she had so dreamed about. She would just have to wait a little bit longer.
The sound of drills echoed in her head as she tried to edit a radio piece on breastfeeding. It was a sound she did not want to hear in light of tomorrow.
Instead she tried to concentrate on the voice in her headphones. She was facilitating a radio project, whereby a group of ladies were being trained – by her – to interview lots of different people about the myths, difficulties, funny stories and attitudes concerning breastfeeding. The myth she was editing related to size. The question was: did it matter how large you were when it came to breast feeding your baby? The answer the midwife gave was so funny it made her roar with laughter.
“Whether you have two gnats on the end of an ironing board or you have a trombone to deal with, every mother will have more than enough milk to feed one baby, or two or three!”
Mrs Bennet had proved the fact that gnats did very well when it came to feeding two hungry twins. She looked back at the milk bar days with fondness. Seeing Spag and Bol running round with oodles of energy, giggling and bumping into each other with their new pushchairs, it was hard to imagine them ever being the tiny vulnerable bundles they once were.
“I would so love to make time stop sometimes. They just grow up so quickly, like sand slipping through your fingers,” she thought.
But then there were moments like those in the dentist chair that seemed to last forever and didn’t go quick enough. Purees were a thing of the past for the little Miss Bennets, but not so for Mrs Bennet. She would be on the organic baby food tomorrow. Baby rice pudding had always been her favourite.
Showing posts with label dentist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dentist. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Friday, 15 May 2009
Passing out in style
Thursday, May 14 09
Mrs Bennet needn’t have worried about having an emotional torrent in the dentist's chair. She did much worse. Seven weeks ago, as she sat in the reclining position, to her horror she cried. Jannie had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having held the tears back like a dam, to protect the children, unfortunately the only time there wasn’t a small person around, was in the dentist’s chair. And as the dentist pressed the button to tilt her backwards, he must have unlocked the floodgate. And the floods came, preventing him from removing the poorly tooth which had caused Mrs Bennet grief for almost 10 months, due to a festering abscess. Seven weeks later, Mrs Bennet was back, feeling calm and ready for pain. She’d given birth to five children without pain relief, so she could surely manage a tooth extraction.
Two injections later, all was well - until Mrs Bennet could see the instruments and started imagining what the dentist was doing. It was like watching a gardener attacking the roots of stubborn vegetables; only it was her roots he was dealing with. Her jaw felt like it was being yanked from its socket. She suddenly felt hot, her ears seemed to block out sound and the voices in the room were scarily quiet. She managed an “I don’t feel right,” and the next thing she knew her pulse was being taken, the seat lowered and the operation stopped. Mrs Bennet was horrified. How embarrassing. The procedure would have to continue next week. In the meantime her tooth was now slightly dislodged and as she drove home, a glucose tablet and glass of water later, bits of it started falling off. This was not going to be a fun week. A week of throbbing gums and anxious waiting for yet another visit to the dentist's chair. It was also going to be a week of Darcys in the Dirt ripping up tiles, plastering, plumbing, drilling and banging for all they were worth in order to finish their deadline, which was next Friday. Mr Bennet had ordered the carpet fitters to come the week after, so the Darcys had to finish all the major building work. Mr No Personality surveyor was due to visit the bite-size Pemberley in the coming weeks and unless he was satisfied, the money needed to pay for the work, would stay sitting in the building society. It had felt like Changing Rooms in the past few days and Mrs Bennet half expected Carole Smilie to pop into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa. Mrs Bennet needed vodka or something similar right now. But thought better of it. Alcohol mixed with anaesthetic might not be such a good idea.
Instead she dosed herself up with paracetamol and spent the next three hours writing. It was the only thing which took her mind off into a different world. It provided a window into a space that was her own. Mrs Bennet was surrounded by chaos, but once she started tapping at the computer keys, she could block out dust, muddle and mess and write something which had a beginning, middle and an end. She knew bite-size Pemberley was almost there, but like her half extracted tooth, it wasn’t there yet. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. Once done though, the space and the relief of coming through nine months of mayhem would be great. Would it be worth it? Yes. Would she go through it again? Definitely not.
Mrs Bennet needn’t have worried about having an emotional torrent in the dentist's chair. She did much worse. Seven weeks ago, as she sat in the reclining position, to her horror she cried. Jannie had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having held the tears back like a dam, to protect the children, unfortunately the only time there wasn’t a small person around, was in the dentist’s chair. And as the dentist pressed the button to tilt her backwards, he must have unlocked the floodgate. And the floods came, preventing him from removing the poorly tooth which had caused Mrs Bennet grief for almost 10 months, due to a festering abscess. Seven weeks later, Mrs Bennet was back, feeling calm and ready for pain. She’d given birth to five children without pain relief, so she could surely manage a tooth extraction.
Two injections later, all was well - until Mrs Bennet could see the instruments and started imagining what the dentist was doing. It was like watching a gardener attacking the roots of stubborn vegetables; only it was her roots he was dealing with. Her jaw felt like it was being yanked from its socket. She suddenly felt hot, her ears seemed to block out sound and the voices in the room were scarily quiet. She managed an “I don’t feel right,” and the next thing she knew her pulse was being taken, the seat lowered and the operation stopped. Mrs Bennet was horrified. How embarrassing. The procedure would have to continue next week. In the meantime her tooth was now slightly dislodged and as she drove home, a glucose tablet and glass of water later, bits of it started falling off. This was not going to be a fun week. A week of throbbing gums and anxious waiting for yet another visit to the dentist's chair. It was also going to be a week of Darcys in the Dirt ripping up tiles, plastering, plumbing, drilling and banging for all they were worth in order to finish their deadline, which was next Friday. Mr Bennet had ordered the carpet fitters to come the week after, so the Darcys had to finish all the major building work. Mr No Personality surveyor was due to visit the bite-size Pemberley in the coming weeks and unless he was satisfied, the money needed to pay for the work, would stay sitting in the building society. It had felt like Changing Rooms in the past few days and Mrs Bennet half expected Carole Smilie to pop into the kitchen for a much-needed cuppa. Mrs Bennet needed vodka or something similar right now. But thought better of it. Alcohol mixed with anaesthetic might not be such a good idea.
Instead she dosed herself up with paracetamol and spent the next three hours writing. It was the only thing which took her mind off into a different world. It provided a window into a space that was her own. Mrs Bennet was surrounded by chaos, but once she started tapping at the computer keys, she could block out dust, muddle and mess and write something which had a beginning, middle and an end. She knew bite-size Pemberley was almost there, but like her half extracted tooth, it wasn’t there yet. And she suspected it would get worse before it got better. Once done though, the space and the relief of coming through nine months of mayhem would be great. Would it be worth it? Yes. Would she go through it again? Definitely not.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Open wide please!
Wednesday, September 18 08
At 10 o'clock Mrs Bennet had the chance to be without all five of her daughters and to sit down for half an hour. The only sting in the tail was the fact she was sitting in the dentist's chair. However unlike the unfortunate tooth incident during a wet week under canvas, this dentist was dishy and if she wasn't married and about 20 years younger, she would have perhaps fluttered her eyelashes at him. But respectable wives with five children, fast approaching 40, didn't do such things. Well they might, but she wasn't one of them. She just flirted with a cup of hot frothy coffee, which didn't count. This morning's drilling, was the final chapter in the holiday dentist saga. To recap, she had woken up a bald-headed middle-aged man on a Saturday morning, forcing him to get into his very expensive soft-topped vehicle and fly to her aid to rid her of the unbearable pain, which three days earlier he'd charged £40 to tell her was a pulled muscle. He'd taken off a filling, to put a temporary one on, and now she was paying to have that one removed and a permanent one put back.
"I'm definitely in the wrong job. But I wouldn't want to look down throats all day long. Although drilling must be kind of fun when it's not done on yourself," she thought.
It helped that her dentist was young, friendly and like Mr Bennet had a nice smile, which showed off his perfect teeth. In her mid 20's when she had first set eyes on the young Mr Bennet, it was his long-lashed blue eyes and gorgeous smile which had impressed her. He was a good advert for teeth, unlike herself, who seemed to be taking a dentist residency. However she wished to add her teeth were fine before she had had children. She'd only had this conversation yesterday with a dear friend and fellow mother who was also forking out a fortune for dental treatment. She'd lost a gold crown and was paying dearly for it.
"My mum told me you lose two teeth for every child you have," she'd informed Mrs Bennet.
"I may as well order my dentures now then!" Mrs Bennet replied, "Although 10 teeth might fetch a fair price from the tooth fairy!"
It was the first question she'd asked the dentist when she sat in his chair. His assistant replied:
"I think the story's got exaggerated in time. My mum told me it was one tooth per child."
"Still five teeth is still too many for me," declared Mrs Bennet, who resolved never to eat another toffee in her life.
She kept quiet after that. Well she could hardly say much, with a drill in her mouth, a numbed jaw and two faces peering over her. She tried to relax as Terry Wogan rambled on in the corner of the room. She shut her eyes and pretended she wasn't there. For a moment, she was on a beach, lying in a hammock, enjoying the warm sea breeze with a rum and coke in hand. Until she had to raise her hand to spit out the potent taste which was filling her mouth. Mrs Bennet could think of a better and cheaper way to spend 30 minutes without children.
At 10 o'clock Mrs Bennet had the chance to be without all five of her daughters and to sit down for half an hour. The only sting in the tail was the fact she was sitting in the dentist's chair. However unlike the unfortunate tooth incident during a wet week under canvas, this dentist was dishy and if she wasn't married and about 20 years younger, she would have perhaps fluttered her eyelashes at him. But respectable wives with five children, fast approaching 40, didn't do such things. Well they might, but she wasn't one of them. She just flirted with a cup of hot frothy coffee, which didn't count. This morning's drilling, was the final chapter in the holiday dentist saga. To recap, she had woken up a bald-headed middle-aged man on a Saturday morning, forcing him to get into his very expensive soft-topped vehicle and fly to her aid to rid her of the unbearable pain, which three days earlier he'd charged £40 to tell her was a pulled muscle. He'd taken off a filling, to put a temporary one on, and now she was paying to have that one removed and a permanent one put back.
"I'm definitely in the wrong job. But I wouldn't want to look down throats all day long. Although drilling must be kind of fun when it's not done on yourself," she thought.
It helped that her dentist was young, friendly and like Mr Bennet had a nice smile, which showed off his perfect teeth. In her mid 20's when she had first set eyes on the young Mr Bennet, it was his long-lashed blue eyes and gorgeous smile which had impressed her. He was a good advert for teeth, unlike herself, who seemed to be taking a dentist residency. However she wished to add her teeth were fine before she had had children. She'd only had this conversation yesterday with a dear friend and fellow mother who was also forking out a fortune for dental treatment. She'd lost a gold crown and was paying dearly for it.
"My mum told me you lose two teeth for every child you have," she'd informed Mrs Bennet.
"I may as well order my dentures now then!" Mrs Bennet replied, "Although 10 teeth might fetch a fair price from the tooth fairy!"
It was the first question she'd asked the dentist when she sat in his chair. His assistant replied:
"I think the story's got exaggerated in time. My mum told me it was one tooth per child."
"Still five teeth is still too many for me," declared Mrs Bennet, who resolved never to eat another toffee in her life.
She kept quiet after that. Well she could hardly say much, with a drill in her mouth, a numbed jaw and two faces peering over her. She tried to relax as Terry Wogan rambled on in the corner of the room. She shut her eyes and pretended she wasn't there. For a moment, she was on a beach, lying in a hammock, enjoying the warm sea breeze with a rum and coke in hand. Until she had to raise her hand to spit out the potent taste which was filling her mouth. Mrs Bennet could think of a better and cheaper way to spend 30 minutes without children.
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