A couple of weeks ago, I nearly died.
Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. It could have happened though – death, or serious injury. Or a slight injury. Or even a bit of a fright. But I experienced none of that.
This is what did happen: I was driving on the M50, then turned into the exit for the M7. Ahead of me, a white van attempted to change lane, but there was a car right beside it. The two vehicles slammed into each other and wobbled. The van pulled into the hard shoulder, while the car skidded to a halt in the middle of traffic, straddling two lanes.
I was directly behind, so I scarcely had time to think. I swerved around the stationary car. A moment’s distraction and I would have crashed into the back of it. The motorist behind, without a view of what had just happened, would probably have crashed into me.
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Later on, I checked online and couldn’t find any reports of a crash. Thankfully, no one was hurt. Yet, obviously, it could have been far more serious. And I’m not telling you this to demonstrate my nerves of steel or my superior driving skill – I wouldn’t claim to have either – but because of my reaction. I swerved around the car and drove on. I went about my day. That evening, I told Herself about it, but it wasn’t the first thing I told her. It was almost an afterthought.
Nor, in the days that followed, did I experience any delayed shock or a new appreciation of life. It was just a slightly surreal thing that happened. I don’t seem to have been troubled by it. But I was slightly baffled as to why I wasn’t.
Two days later, I had to go to the dentist. There may well be people who enjoy such appointments, but I’ve yet to meet one. It is physically uncomfortable; I particularly dislike the pointy L-shaped instrument they use to hack at the teeth, as if they’ve suddenly decided to abandon all the years of training and just yank the tooth out like a medieval barber.
Obviously, this comes from my own anxiety about the whole scenario in which the patient – this patient anyway – feels particularly vulnerable with their mouth cranked open while various tubes and fearsome-looking implements are used to scratch around inside.
Part of that comes from not knowing exactly what the dentist is doing. In fairness, it’s probably better that they don’t share too much detail; and the patient isn’t in a position to ask. But that information void can be filled with speculation: they are yanking at that tooth an awfully long time. Is there something wrong? Have they made a mistake? I tried to pass the time by counting how many objects were being placed inside my mouth, but abandoned that when it seemed like more was going in than coming out.
[ Seán Moncrieff: The word ‘old’ has become an insult. If you’re old, it’s all overOpens in new window ]
I tried staring serenely at the ceiling and listing all the things I would do when I got out of this chair, when I could move my shoulders again and give my now-aching jaw a rub. But that served only to draw my attention to my jaw and shoulders.
And it wasn’t just the discomfort or the vulnerability that I was trying to distract myself from: it was the jarring intimacy of the situation. For 90 minutes, two people leaned over my head and rummaged around inside. Yet they never made eye contact. Whenever the dentist spoke to me, she was looking away.
All of this led me to ponder again why I was left unfazed by a near car crash, yet a dental visit leaves me quivering. We can be a mystery to ourselves. Perhaps it’s time. The car incident lasted less than a second, and was over. Dental work never ends. I have to go back for a root canal.
