June '25 Blog Entries For Bard's Hall

Paul's Bite Or Lack Thereof

         Well, the hubby and I just returned from his second dentist visit this week. On the surface, that may not seem like a ridiculous or earth-shattering number, but to someone who is learning he cannot avoid them this is a disturbing first.

         He can no longer claim," I hate dentists."

         That aversion has not been wise or healthy. Stubbornly , with every excuse from I don't have the time to it can wait, Paul has suffered needlessly. Excruciating headaches, incredible pain and sleepless nights have worn him down. Those symptoms of broken teeth have ganged up on his will. Never mind that he has relinquished attempts to eat certain foods that require the basic notion of chewing. He has experienced and endured infection after infection.

         My comments probably have been received as criticism or nagging. I suppose he was not ready to hear my concerns. He made it clear that it was his problem and he would deal with it. I became relegated to the cook who considered his limitations. I could listen to him moan and groan. I might be needed to drive him to emergency departments. He did not appreciate his offspring encouraging him to bite the bullet and do something. His teeth and their sorry state were a taboo conversation. Thank goodness we were all immune to his scowls and silence.

         This past week he'd left home Monday morning for his routine of driving a transport for four days before returning. Within that day, he phoned me three times to lament his predicament and instruct me to book a dentist visit. I in turn returned his urgent calls with news of an appointment the next day. Predictably, he groused about that timeline. Then a few hours later he phoned yet again to demand I pick him up. In that short period he had arranged for another driver to uber him back to our village. Huh, he had abandoned his rig and his load in favour of returning home, early.

This stubborn man had attempted to drive with a pounding headache, tearing eyes and a face swollen to resemble a greying chipmunk. Tearing eyes? His left eye was a red slit. He'd snuck out that morning unseen by moi. I soon realized that sipping a drink seemed not only awkward but excruciating. Great, dehydration, too.          

After a long sleepless night, we attended the dental appointment to discover Paul once again had a raging infection. This interfered with the attempts to freeze his mouth and we departed with a prescription. Never have I ever encountered an antibiotic pill large enough to be described as a horse pill, although I saw it as medication for an elephant. And it came with instructions to swallow one every twelve hours. Wow, serious stuff as past antibiotics were prescribed in a smaller format with orders to take every four hours. Whatever, Paul accepted this. What options did he have?

         Then began one night of extreme nausea and stomach-wrenching vomiting. Sleep? Nope. And still that pounding headache persisted. So too did the swelling persist.

         Finally, hubby survived to today, Friday, and the extraction of not one, not two, but three molars.

         During the procedure, the second male dentist chose to keep me company in the aptly named waiting room. He empathized with my partner and shared that his father could be stubborn when it came to his own health. We discussed medication and his very real concern that Paul could be reaching his limit for antibiotics. Over the years, he has had to seek these wonder drugs numerous times for all manner of infections manifested in his hands, his arms, a bout with meningitis, and his teeth. The danger lies in relying upon antibiotics one too many times and developing a tolerance for them. With each course, Paul may well have set himself up for the real chance that these drugs would no longer be effective for him. Sure, heavy implications.

         Poor Paul resembled the walking wounded when he stumbled out to rejoin me. He mumbled that he felt faint and his head throbbed with increased intensity. Both dentists did not hesitate to fetch apple juice and Advil while they waited quietly for their patient to recuperate enough to vacate their premises.

         Ah, the one talkative dentist had initially stood behind my husband when he first reappeared and winked at me while he delivered his post-op directions.

         "Now remember, wife, no housework for this fellow whatsoever. That means no sweeping, no dish washing, no vaccuming, nothing."

         Doctor's orders, right?

         Earlier, this man had casually pushed a broom along the floor as he remarked, "What? No one is filming this? Look, a man is sweeping. No? No one is surprised? No proof for my wife?"          

The hygienist, the receptionist and I, all females, did deign to laugh. I could not resist teasing him about the bright red ladder I'd seen him carrying when I first laid eyes on him today.

         "You do not know how relieved I am that you did not tote your ladder into the treatment room with my husband. All I could think was that you might want better leverage and a raised perspective."

         Now, we await the anticipated recovery and future extractions. Paul survived and he might have faced his reluctance, his fear, his helplessness. How can he now claim to hate dentists? These two practitioners went above and beyond for him. Sigh, it's all about those first, tremulous baby steps. Soon, Paul's bite will be equal to his bark. Actually, he won't need to grumble anymore, right?

926 words

         

         Attention: StephBee and Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ "The Bard's Hall Contest" 


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