No, it’s not the Mariah Carey song, although I too now have that stuck in my head. Soz.
It’s my two front teeth.
Anyone remember that song? If not, allow me to educate you. It was written in the late forties about a kid who just wants to get their two front teeth so they can wish you Merry Christmas, instead of the lispy “Merry Chrithmath” I’m guessing.
You may wonder where the hell I am going with this, well, a few weeks ago, (seven if you’re counting, which I most definitely have been) I, and my front teeth met with a quite literally smashingly grim accident which involved fainting in my kitchen and bashing my face (quite spectacularly) into a marble worktop. I should point out this was first thing in the morning, no alcohol played a part in this and as far as stern questioning has so far proved, the Schnauzer did not trip me up in the hope of ridding the home of me once and for all and becoming the true Queen Bee she’s always known she is. I digress, back to the smashed up face. (Maybe skip the next part if you’re on the squeamish side.) After waking up in a delightful pool of blood and a kitchen cupboard that looked like Jack the Ripper himself had taken a detour and paid a visit, I made my way to the nearest mirror in a minor state of panic and quickly realised I no longer had the usual straight front teeth that I’d had when I woke up that morning, have had since they replaced my baby teeth and I had not really appreciated in the slightest in the intervening years because, well, you just take teeth for granted don’t you? No, instead I had teeth that were pointing backwards into my throat and a bottom lip that had a gaping hole in it from evidently biting through it on my way down to the floor.
Told you it was grim. Off to A&E I went, spent a few hours in a corridor and had the possibility of a broken jaw ruled out. Next, my dentist who declared it was a bit of a bigger job and sent me to a different hospital who have a facial injuries ward, where I spent another few delightful hours only to be told they couldn’t help me either. (This also coincided with the first panic attack I’ve ever been “lucky” enough to experience. Which was nice.)
By now, we’re two days in. I still have a smashed up face, I haven’t eaten or slept and we have one last hospital to try. And thank the moon and stars, try they did. I had a small op to fix my teeth back into position and to sew up my ragged lip and was sent home only slightly off my face on morphine and with a bag full of prescription drugs that would comfortably make my local pharmacy short of space.
Cue the boredom. Cue the panic when deadlines are due that week and I write my blogs from bed but have to get them proofread by my husband and trusted friends to ensure I’m not spouting more crap than usual. Cue the not being able to concentrate on anything for longer than around five minutes. I tried books. I tried boxsets. I even, in a fit of “I need to do something” decided it would be a perfect time to organise my wardrobe but this just led to online shopping. Oops.
And cue the mind mess. What with the flashbacks of waking up wondering why I was on the floor covered in blood, the panic of wondering how long I was unconscious for and the drugs, (I think mostly the drugs) I wasn’t in a good place and had more than a few days where I didn’t even want to drag myself out of bed. I snapped at pretty much most of the people trying to help me. I cancelled plans because a) I couldn’t cope with any of it and b) I looked like I’d been given lip fillers by Mr Magoo. (Another old reference, can’t help it, Google it.)
On the flip side I had ALL the soup to look forward to. Now we all know that chicken soup soothes the soul and instantly makes everything better. I can confirm this is most definitely the case and also can recommend all the other flavours as I feel I have tried every single one of them. I couldn’t chew. No more nice juicy apples for me, who am I kidding, no more anything that didn’t involve a couple of bungling gnaws with the back teeth. Sucking the life out of a slice of garlic bread was about as exciting as it got.
But, fast forward to now and I am the proud owner of an “invisible” brace that is more like a gum shield and likes to make me gag which is protecting everything until more work has to take place on the “teeth of doom” in the New Year. But you know what? It’s ok. I’ve come out of it in one piece, I only have a tiny scar where my stitches were and it’s not the end of the world. It’s cured my fear of dentists as I am pretty sure I have had more appointments in the last seven weeks than the last seven years. Once the drugs ended, I bounced (gingerly now, don’t want to be having any more accidents) back to my “normal” self, just one who is slightly nervous of marble worktops.
So Father Christmas, if you’re reading this, I promise I have been a good girl all year (we’ll skip over a couple of incidents, they were Prosecco’s fault) and if you’d like to send me some shiny new teeth that would be marvellous.
Until then coffee lovers, Merry Chrithmath xxx