IRON MOUTH

“I don’t know what I’m looking at," said the dentist, as we clustered round the screen to examine my X-ray.  

That, I thought, was an unusual thing for a dentist to say.  Because if there’s one thing you can be sure about with dentists it's that they always know what they’re looking at. And exactly how to describe it to the person whose job it is to write it down.  Without questioning.  Let’s face it, when was the last time you heard a dental assistant say: “Hang on a minute, slow down a bit. Are you absolutely sure you got that right?  Doesn’t sound very likely to me.” You don't.  Because when it comes to the inside of your mouth, there are no surprises. There’s nothing there that doesn’t have a name.  And the dentist knows what it is.

And another thing about dentists is that - yes, they sound like they know a lot of stuff, but the truth is that what they let you know they know is just the tip of the iceberg.  It can only ever represent a tiny fraction of the sum total of what they actually know. It’s as though when they’re training they have to learn everything that happens below the mouth first. On the way up, as it were. 

But the rest of what dentists know they usually keep to themselves. Either because, as a simple patient, you simply wouldn’t understand (that’s where the assistant comes in - they need someone who talks their language), or because it’s just not relevant. But they still know it, and sometimes it just slips out: “You’re right-handed aren’t you?” they’ll say as they examine the erosion on your lateral incisors. Or, “you eat a lot of bananas don’t you?” as they prod around in your soft tissue.  

And they get away with this unchallenged because dentists are the only people who speak to you while their hands are jammed down your throat. So nobody ever says: “I’m sorry, but I fail to see the relevance of that comment," or “do you mind if we keep my personal life out of this.”  The normal laws of conversational exchange don't count, because nobody ever talks back. Result: you don’t understand what they’re saying, but they keep talking anyway.

So when a dentist says “I don’t know what I’m looking at" you know you’re in trouble. Who else can you ask? The dental assistant only writes down stuff the dentist says. They don’t know what that stuff looks like. So they’re no good. I could suggest we look at Google, but I suspect that wouldn’t go down well. In fact I think my dentist probably wrote Google, so if she doesn’t know, it won't. So what happens now? The dentist is looking at something that she hasn’t got a name for. And that thing, I suspect, is the small metallic-looking shard lodged in the region of my left nostril.

Let’s be clear, this was never going to be an entirely straightforward examination. It was the first appointment with a new dentist who, given my complete lack of dental records – and inability to conjure up any useful memories of what’s happened in my mouth over the last thirty years - was going to have to figure out a pretty complex situation entirely from scratch. Complex because a number of upper teeth were unexpectedly removed by the front of a Mini Metro in 1978 and replaced a few years later by the sturdiest man-made structure since the Forth Bridge. 

“Any recent facial injuries?” the dentist enquired. I thought for a moment, running through my index of recent incidents to see if it happened to include being shot in the face or getting shrapnel embedded in my skull. No, if any of those things had happened, I certainly couldn’t bring them to mind at that moment. Perhaps I should go home and have a leaf through the holiday photo album to jog my memory.

As the dentist moved in for a closer look I began considering how this might play out.  They could pull out the upper left incisor, screw out the bolt holding it in place and extract the object through the cavity. But, again like the Forth Bridge (and not the Forth Road Bridge - unfortunately), that in-plant was built to last and I couldn’t see it being extracted without the help of Balfour Beatty and an industrial measurement of dynamite. 

So how about going directly through the upper lip and drilling through the cartilage somewhere below the nose? That should do it. But – I don’t know – there’s just something about drill / face combinations that doesn’t appeal to me. It would be okay I suppose if I happened to have an exploding watch and a ridiculously far-fetched film script guiding my every action. But the day so far had had a distinctly non-fictional feel to it. There had to be another way...

***

The dentist turns from the screen and rips off her latex gloves with a decisive snap. She nods knowingly at the assistant who nods back. It seems they have a plan.  

“Take a seat,” she says sternly, and I sit on the edge of the dentist chair, gripping it hard and fearing the worst.  

“I’m afraid I have bad news Mr Hewitt. The condition you have is inoperable. The invasive agent cannot be removed through conventional surgery. Further more, the prognosis is not good. It is inevitable that the object will travel through your blood stream and become lodged in your heart, resulting in almost certain death. I would give you two weeks – three at most.”

Again she glances up at the assistant who returns a slightly nervous look, biting her lip almost imperceptibly. It seems she is not as comfortable as her senior colleague in delivering this news. 

“But there is something we can do,” the dentist continues.  “It’s an untested procedure that isn’t widely available yet. The risks are high, but at least it will give you a chance. I have to warn you that you will be the first person in Clackmannanshire to have this treatment."

It's all I can do to utter a vague grunt of acquiescence, so stunned am I with the revelation.  She motions to her assistant who goes over to a cabinet and brings back a white cylindrical canister with NHS Forth Valley stamped on the side.  She unfastens a number of catches and a hiss of compressed gas escapes into the room as she removes the lid.

“Do you know what this is, Mr Hewitt?” she asks, taking out a strange glowing device that resembled a miniature head light with various wires and circuits protruding from the back.

“Yes,” I stammer, “I know what that is. Surely you can’t expect me to go through with this?”

Oblivious to my protests she continues, gazing adoringly at the object: 

“A mark six nuclear powered arc reactor.  Capable of generating a magnetic field strong enough to prevent the shard entering your heart...” She turns and fixes me with her steely eyes: “It’s your only chance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I explode. “I only came in here for a check up, and now you’re talking about installing a nuclear powerplant in my chest.  Doesn’t the NHS have anything better to spend its money on?”

“Imagine the power Mr Hewitt. Eight gigajoules per second. Almost unlimited clean energy. Enough to power your home, your neighbour’s home, the whole street – they’ll love you for it. Imagine the Christmas lights – all coming from you!”

“Yes, and lethal doses of Palladium poisoning my blood stream. Bet it doesn’t mention that on the prescription does it!”

“Mr Hewitt, you’re way out of date. That problem was resolved years ago. This model runs on perfectly safe Vibranium tablets. You can get them at Lloyds Pharmacy across the road.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to regain some kind of composure. “Okay, the power sounds good, and I like the whole armoured suit thing. I’ve always fancied being able to fly, so I’m good with that. But my family, the people I love – they’re mortal. They’re just ordinary people.  And I like them that way. And while destroying marauding super-villains will be great for a while, I just know that sooner or later the thrill will wear off and…I’ll just want to be normal again.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take some time to think about this Mr Hewitt?”

“No, I’ve made up my mind. What’s limitless clean power if you can’t be there for the people you love, sharing in their triumphs, consoling them in their times of need? Who wants to be indestructible? Isn’t it our weaknesses that make us who we are?  That make us human?”

“I see,” said dentist, placing the device back in the box. “I see.”

***

“I think what we’ll do is take another picture,” she said finally. Good on her, I knew she’d know what to do. Another picture was of course the answer. The camera never lies, but X-rays – wouldn’t trust one as far as I could throw it.

Five minutes later we’re huddled once again around the screen, me painfully aware that my allocated twenty minutes has elapsed, but the dentist showing no sign of losing interest in the case. I wondered how long it’d been since she’d last not known something.  Possibly years.

But now the story was a whole lot clearer. The metal shard was not, in actual fact, metal. Or a shard. On closer examination it turned out to be some ordinary old stuff that someone at some point used to fill a space above a dead root. Standard procedure. Seems she knew what she was looking at after all, just didn’t know it.

“Funny how different something can look when you change the angle,” she concluded.

How true.

“See you in six months?”

“Yeh, okay.”




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