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I am up to my earlobes in paperwork. In a few minutes I shall be ploughing through a four page bibliography (single spaced because it's much less scary in single space)- and checking for duplicates and then I shall mysteriously fix my scanner and create duplicates of asterisked items. I might tell you what this is for before the end of March. Or I might not, because it might not happen.
I'm not a pessimist, really, I just have no way of evaluating things right now. While the background pain is diminishing (and hopefully the typos and strange apostrophes as well), I blame my zombie tooth. My zombie tooth was lurking in my mouth when I had a zombie fridge. I just didn't know it was just pretending to be alive. The fridge was not quite as good at faking life. Fortunately, my dentist has training in demolishing sombiness in teeth.
I knew the root was dead and I knew it had become infected, but I was a bit surprised that it had turned necrotic. Even with two injections it hurt when she sorted it out (I can give you the technical language if you want, but I'd rather scare you with ordinariness). Since this afternoon, though, I've discovered I'm less of a misery-guts. If I could solve my legs then I would be amost joyous, but the legs insist on being bad. Maybe it was in sympathy with that tooth? Anyway, it turns out that the pain from everything else in my wonderfully-operational body was such that I entirely mislaid the pain from the tooth. That was something.
My poor dentist. Not only did she have to handle the horrors of a zombie tooth (she made a gorgeous grimace when she looked at what she had purged - and she didn't let me see it. It must have been way exciting) but I regaled her with tales of my childhood as an assistant dental nurse and quietener of scared children. All those in the dental profession need vast reserves of patience and understanding. She and the nurse laughed muchly at my stories.
They got even. It turned out that she was particularly fascinated that I had lived the history of dentistry that she had studied at university.
So it's not just my tooth that's necrotic. I am ancient and doomed and... only forty-eight. Her sense of history isn't mine. I do like the thought that my teeth carry the wisdom of the ages.
For me, the real history was in my father's spare surgery, before he took a partner. There was a chair and a drill and the regular paraphernalia, but it was pre-electric. And we got to play on it...
I'm not a pessimist, really, I just have no way of evaluating things right now. While the background pain is diminishing (and hopefully the typos and strange apostrophes as well), I blame my zombie tooth. My zombie tooth was lurking in my mouth when I had a zombie fridge. I just didn't know it was just pretending to be alive. The fridge was not quite as good at faking life. Fortunately, my dentist has training in demolishing sombiness in teeth.
I knew the root was dead and I knew it had become infected, but I was a bit surprised that it had turned necrotic. Even with two injections it hurt when she sorted it out (I can give you the technical language if you want, but I'd rather scare you with ordinariness). Since this afternoon, though, I've discovered I'm less of a misery-guts. If I could solve my legs then I would be amost joyous, but the legs insist on being bad. Maybe it was in sympathy with that tooth? Anyway, it turns out that the pain from everything else in my wonderfully-operational body was such that I entirely mislaid the pain from the tooth. That was something.
My poor dentist. Not only did she have to handle the horrors of a zombie tooth (she made a gorgeous grimace when she looked at what she had purged - and she didn't let me see it. It must have been way exciting) but I regaled her with tales of my childhood as an assistant dental nurse and quietener of scared children. All those in the dental profession need vast reserves of patience and understanding. She and the nurse laughed muchly at my stories.
They got even. It turned out that she was particularly fascinated that I had lived the history of dentistry that she had studied at university.
So it's not just my tooth that's necrotic. I am ancient and doomed and... only forty-eight. Her sense of history isn't mine. I do like the thought that my teeth carry the wisdom of the ages.
For me, the real history was in my father's spare surgery, before he took a partner. There was a chair and a drill and the regular paraphernalia, but it was pre-electric. And we got to play on it...