11 Sep Overhead Light and Fish
I go back in time as the ‘endodontist’ sends back my chair, pulls the giant Polo-Mint-shaped light overhead, and peers at me. For the last quarter century I have regularly gazed up from horizontal at the painted fish, receding above. I close my eyes as the dental surgeon approaches with what seems like a giant syringe.
A memory comes from an earlier incarnation of my life. Four doors down from Carnaby Street Dental, in 1981-2, ‘Hot Sty’ was a night put on at Fouberts nightclub. I climbed up the dingy staircase then, in bright pinafores made from upholstery prints. We danced to P Funk grooves. My hair was between lengths, in unbecoming shades, crimped and teased. Hair limp by 4am, we left the club and headed to Harry’s all night café, in Kingly St for hot chocolate and chips. The bin workers and stray revellers collided there during the early shift.
Lying prone, I am child-like in the dentist’s chair, hoping to be seen as a good girl, who cleans her precious teeth well. Instruments are scrutinised under the light, then employed to excavate 25mm down my root canal. Like an alchemist, different elemental materials are used in the endodontist’s craft – mist, water, bleach, resin, smoke and cement.
I am aware of the deep-seated stories that can be stirred by teeth and dental trauma. The injured maxillary central incisor – whose image is now projected in ghostly X-ray on a large screen – was formed around four months into my development in the womb. It has bitten into countless apples over the years, and served me well.
An energy meridian runs through each tooth, linking it with an emotion and organ of the body. Upper Left 1 represents ‘acceptance’. Now I am facing the challenge that ageing brings, of accepting all that I have not done, while coming to terms with who I have become.
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