I've spent the past week in bed, and not in a good way. A dose of norovirus with a good splash of acute sinusitis completely knocked me off my feet. It also tried to starve me to death; I couldn't keep anything down. At the same time, poor Ryoma, who has been running around like a blue-arsed fly (pardon my French), has not been eating properly because he's been too busy taking care of me. Anyway, yesterday evening, out of the blue, the urge to vomit vanished into thin air and was replaced by a ravenous appetite that could only be satisfied by me eating enough food to feed three families for sixteen years. So, we had the first proper meal we've had together for a week. Then it happened.
Ryoma's tooth, a rear molar to be precise, chose that exact moment to break in half. One half stayed put, presumably out of loyalty, while the other ran for the hills... The little turncoat! Well, what's a half-dead, slightly green, but well-stuffed gal to do? She whips out the dental repair kit that's been in the drawer for two years, waiting for just such an occasion... and then she operates. On the kitchen floor.
Ryoma lay with his head propped on a pillow. With torch in hand to illuminate the way (and I'm talking the type used by the FBI to cosh people when they resist arrest) I had a good mooch, inspected the lay of the land and gave everything a jolly good poke. Then I applied the eugenol. And this is the point at which Ryoma almost choked to death. I missed my calling when I didn't become a dentist.
It occurred to me at that moment that better visibility was required. After having located my old dental mirror and scratchy-pokey-metal-tooth-prodder (let me know if I'm getting too scientific here), I was ready to go back in. 'That mirror is clean, isn't it?' Ryoma asked. I, of course, answered in the affirmative. I then had to pause and remove the mirror from his mouth in order to clean off the thick layer of dust that seemed to have miraculously appeared on it, out of nowhere, since I'd examined it in the half-light of the hallway two minutes earlier. We were good to go.
It was time to pop in the actual filling material itself. The instructions told me to roll it into a tiny ball between my fingers. I did so. It was very round. 'Open wide,' I instructed confidently. 'Hang on a minute,' I then added, reaching above Ryoma's head and patting the oaky surface located just beyond the pillow, 'your filling is rolling across the kitchen floor'. A note to the wise: it's incredibly difficult to pop a filling into a rear molar when your patient is laughing hysterically.
Ryoma did eventually get his temporary filling, and it has to be said that he was very brave to let a somewhat swaying and silly non-dentist poke about amongst his dentals. After a week of nothing but sickness for me and nothing but worry for Ryoma, a broken tooth was the last thing either of us wanted. The laughter that ensued as a result of Ryoma having one, on the other hand, was just what the doctor ordered.
Causes Gina Collia-Suzuki Supports
The World Wildlife Fund
Cancer Research UK