Saturday, 7 March 2015
All about dental implants
2 February 2015
I take a break from the CIPA work to have some dental implants forced into my mouth.
There are two types of implant: screw-fitting and bayonet-fitting. Or at least, that’s what it looked like to me, from the pretty cross-sections which the very expensive dentist showed me. The very expensive dentist thinks I am thick (in my defence, it is not easy to be intelligent when your mouth is clamped open and someone has a power tool inside it), so he has explained the cross-sections to me in great detail. This pink area with the tooth sticking out of it, he says: this is the gum. You don’t say. He says: it is like we have sliced through your jawbone to look at the tooth and gum. Gosh that’s clever, I say, only it comes out as goshawarrumph.
Then he explains how the toothy bit screws onto the screwy bit, and apologises if this is a bit complicated. I say: it is not as complicated as my son’s Airfix® instructions. It comes out as ashashoppyate-umphwheffelshuns.
Anyway, today it feels like he actually has sliced through my jawbone, so maybe I misunderstood the cross-sections after all. He subjects me to three hours’ worth of very expensive torture. With thirty minutes to go, he asks a very expensive stock control technician for an implant of a specific size and shape. I hear the very expensive stock control technician rummaging in a toolbox. Then I hear him say he doesn’t think they have any. I have a strong urge to bite down on the very expensive hand in my mouth. Having the correct type of implant is, I feel, something he should have checked for before he started. Or am I being picky?
Nothing more is said for a while. I suspect they made do with a 15 mm rawlplug instead. I have no desire to check.
Once home, I return to my PC and stare at my inbox, dribbling miserably into a bowl of soup which is all I am going to be able to eat from now on ever until I die. And for once, I cannot bring myself to write any emails back.