One thing I really hate to do is to visit a dentist. Bad luck hangs around my mouth. So many odd things and mistakes have happened any time I'm in the clutches of a dentist. Therefore, it's with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms that I end up at a dentist in Cadiz. It's not that I have actual toothache, it's more a dreadful feeling that something is not quite right with a tooth on the upper jaw.
"Open your mouth." The dentist looks like a band leader conducting his orchestra, or a lion tamer goading his long-suffering animal to perform.
Now, opening my mouth isn't the problem. It's what happens next that causes me great consternation.
He picks up long, thin, pointed instruments and proceeds to poke and probe.
"Aha. Senorita, you need to have the tooth pulled."
"I do?" I'm surprised, for I'm not in too much pain at all.
"I can pull it now, if you like." He grins down at me.
Before I can nod or shake my head he injects the tooth, presumably with anaesthetic. He injects all around the tooth maybe three or four times.
Guess what? He's injecting the wrong tooth! He's sticking the needle into a tooth on the lower jaw, not the upper jaw.
He places the needle down, picks up the pliers and pulls and pulls. The pain is beyond any pain that anybody has ever experienced in the whole of the whole world's life. Believe me. There was no time for the anaesthetic to work.
I hear a crack.
"The tooth has broken, senorita. Don't worry I'll get it out."
He yanks on a drill and drills deeply to duly remove the remainder of the tooth.
I'm dead. I have to be dead. I can no longer feel the pain. When there is so much pain, you reach a point where everything goes numb.
Or, maybe it was the anaesthetic finally kicking in.
"Here, take this." He offers me some cotton wool and adds, "Goodbye,senorita."
He dismisses me.
I can't even think of any Spanish. Not a single word comes to mind as I nurse my bleeding mouth. I want to yell at him for pulling the wrong tooth. I want to kick him in his fat ugly face. He grins widely at me as he ushers me to the door and plays with his moustache.
"If you have any more teeth problems, just come back, any time. Ah, one moment. Do you want to take your tooth with you? A little keepsake?"
I would love to take my tooth with me! I would love to still have it, you idiot of idiots!
I have to tutor two nurses at the local hospital, the Residencia Zamacola. They're beginners who are really keen to learn English and I don't want to disappoint them.
I arrive in pain, sharp, searing pain.
"What's wrong? You look pale."
Both nurses look at me with concern.
"Sit down and relax. Tell us what happened."
I relate to them the best I can about the inept, unprofessional, stupid, moronic, dreadful dentist. I don't think I make much sense as I struggle to speak in Spanish, all the while, spitting blood onto the cotton wool. The best evidence is in my mouth which they both gaze into with huge eyes.
"You need to be careful when it comes to dentists. Some of them are doctors who have only done six months of dentistry."
"The pain will go away. Do you know your blood group?"
I stare at them both, not believing for a second that the pain will go away. I've never ever thought about my blood group, and I don't really care what it is.
"We can test your blood group, if you'd like."
I don't know why they offer this. But they do, and I get my blood group tested.
It's AB +
"It's quite a rare blood group. That makes you special."
Both nurses smile down at me.
I don't know how to smile. The pain is too deep. I don't understand why doctors can do just six months of dentistry and become a dentist. It's simply not right.
Thanks for taking the time to read my post. Feel free to check out my blog about the seventies and eighties in Spain at http://seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com
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Hasta pronto!