Teethgrinder

I’ve been a little bit unwell the past couple of weeks. Nothing major, just this cold bug that’s been going around. It knocked me out for a few days to the point where all I could do was lie on the sofa and watch people try to use gravity to kill themselves in new and interesting ways in the Winter Olympics, all while a cat sat on my head.

I was again reminded of how bad I am at being ill. I think many people are nowadays. We’re riddled with guilt that we aren’t Doing Something or Making Good Use of Our Time because everybody else seems to be. But now and again, you need to listen to your body when it says, “All you’re good for right now is watching a human throw themselves headfirst on a tea tray down a lethal ice slide while you wonder about what choices they made to arrive at this point in their life.”

But I’m feeling better. Not good – I’ve not felt good in years – but definitely less rubbish. But there’s a curling-shaped hole in my heart now it’s all over. I find myself forlornly sliding pans across my kitchen floor while trying to teach the cats to act as sweepers with brooms. Or use their tails, at least.

So, we’ve been back on heart transplant preparation. What I didn’t know (just one item in the huge warehouse of things I’m unaware of) is that you need good teeth for a heart transplant. Not to impress the surgeon, but an infection in the mouth can lead to all sorts of problems in an immunocompromised body. So, you need to get a dental fitness letter signed by your dentist to show your body isn’t going to go into meltdown because you’ve been gargling with Coca-Cola.

If I impart only one piece of wisdom in my life, it would be “Don’t book a dentist appointment at 8 o’clock on a Monday morning because it’ll just ruin your entire week”. Dental work is the only profession where people pay you money to make them feel bad about themselves, outside of certain niche interests you find on the internet.

But I have a check-up every six months, I brush twice a day, and stick those tiny bristly things between my teeth. It’ll all be fine, won’t it?

Oh, of course not.

That wisdom tooth I should’ve had taken out when I was 18 years old, but the hospital appointment clashed with a huge party I wanted to go to? That’s got to come out. (It was a good party, though. I got a snog. I regret nothing.)

Possible root canal work? We’ll need to have that checked out in a private appointment with the root canal specialist.

And I’ll need to see the hygienist.

Oh, and that filling I had done a few months ago? I’ve managed to crack that by grinding my teeth in my sleep, so that needs to be redone. And I’ll need a mouthguard made up so it doesn’t happen in the future.

I was kind of OK with that last one, as I’m trying to use songs as the titles of these posts, so I immediately thought of the absolute banger ‘Teethgrinder’ by Therapy? So that was one less thing to deal with. Got to take the wins where you can find them.

So, that’s where we are at the moment while we wait for the next round of appointments with the heart care people. In the meantime, let’s listen to Therapy?, shall we?

That’s a lot of question marks for one sentence.