Along Westbourne Grove, there is a lightness; people strolling, chatting.
Alone on this picture-perfect Saturday afternoon, I am scared. I am feeling woeful and consumed with self-pity.
Trace asked how I found the dentist I am about to see. I told her I researched dental practices within a 5-minute walk from my flat. Dr P was my choice based on a few factors (clinic with the longest opening hours, housed in a Grade II- listed building with period features intact). But the factor that clinched it for me was he had spent time at UCSD (University of California, San Diego). If I am going to have to finally confront this toothache, I really need American bravado and bed-side manners.
The thing I am learning again and again with fear is, the sooner you step towards it, the easier and calmer things actually become. I made the correct choice in a dentist. Dr P and his nurse S were kind, gentle, calm. They asked if I was nervous. I replied that I was not thrilled. They showed me diagrams, took an x-ray, talked me through the who/what/where/how. I was never made to feel stupid, nor ashamed, for being irresponsible with my broken tooth. It was exactly as my husband had said to me- Trust American-training, where we are taught to empower the patient. Provide context/information to the patient, for the patient can also play an active role in pain-management and healing.
Before he did anything, Dr P would address me by my name (I wish service in the UK and Singapore, would learn this invaluable American trait!), and then state what he was going to do. This way, I was never made to feel caught off guard, more frightened than I already was. He also encouraged me to raise my hand if I needed him to stop.
Was the experience painless? No. Is my threshold for pain, high-ish? Yes, for now.
The story's not quite over though. Next week, I have to return. The drama has a new name. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present, Root Canal.
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