22 Jul Teeth with Wire Splint
I am falling horizontally towards the wooden floor. In the moment that this takes, I have enough time to know that this fall isn’t going to end well. My arms, which were yanking at something, are now strangely absent. I see the floor, then mortality punches me in the face. The sound of the crash wakes Dexter. I am confused. There is blood, and a gap in my jaw. I wonder if I have broken my nose, and reach my hand across the floor-boards in search of my tooth. “Help. Help. Help,” I cry out. The impact lands slowly, with shaking, and a new awareness of terrible vulnerability. Dexter, unexpectedly awake, rests on the stairs with me, and holds my hand. He is well versed in emergency protocol, speaks in a gentle tone. Carer/cared for roles reversed, “Don’t worry,” he soothes, “it’ll be okay.” His voice comforts me, like a turmeric latte. Cocooned in the immediate aftermath, my other helpers navigate what to do next. My inner monologue trickles back. “I disregarded that ‘stupid’ warning. Why was I rushing? What a ridiculous pratfall. You should be more present. What have I done? What does it mean?” I float into the dental chair, the patient who makes everyone else wait. The dentist peers through his visor at my crooked tombstone teeth. Behind the protective layers all I can see are two kind brown eyes. “I’m feeling wobbly, and might cry,” I confess. “It’s okay if you cry,” he says. This permission allows me to sink back in the chair, and I listen to ‘Staying Alive’ pulse through his speakers as my tears fall. I am very glad to be alive, grateful for this kindness, even as he wields the pliers to retract my tooth. My head swimming with anaesthetic, I hear a distant little voice say, “Thank you.” “You’re very lucky,” he replies. “It could have been a lot worse.”
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