Today is D-Day. Dentist Day. I wake up at 5 a.m. with pain in the whole left side of my mouth, all my teeth are throbbing with pain. It is excruciating. It is deafening. I wait until 10 a.m., before my Japanese speaking friend books me an appointment with a nearby dentist. I eat something out of necessity, scrambled eggs; before heading back to the hostel to play the waiting game.

At around half twelve, the pain feels like an earthquake. The building begins to shake. It isn’t pain, though; a magnitude 5.6 earthquake has struck Ibaraki, some 100 kilometres northeast of Asakusa. After one minute, the shaking stops. I head into the hostel lounge, and everyone is just carrying on as normal, as if nothing has happened. How strange.

I kill time reading about earthquakes before the time arrives to visit the dentist. I must admit, I am a little nervous. My friend is here though, so I have nothing to worry about as far as speaking Japanese is concerned. We head to the nearby Rox building; a massive commercial shopping complex containing many different shops, a gymnasium, a public bath, and oddly, a dental clinic.

We head up to the fifth floor to the clinic and fill out all the necessary paperwork at the reception. How often do I brush my teeth? How long have I been in pain? The usual questions. My name is eventually called at five to three, and I head into the surgery. Rather than separate rooms, the dentists work in an open space divided by booths separated by curtains. As I walk to my booth, the other dentists greet me with a cheery “Hello.” The atmosphere is somewhat comforting.

My booth is immaculately clean, shiny, and very white. I take a seat in the dentist chair, which has a television screen showing news footage of the earlier earthquake. A cloth is placed over my eyes while my teeth are carefully examined one by one. Next, I am asked to go for an X-ray. The dentist says that I am the tallest person to ever use the X-ray machine; it is clearly not designed for somebody of my height. I actually have to squat slightly to use it. As the X-ray machine scans my teeth, ‘Für Elise’ by Beethoven plays.

A tablet screen is placed in front of me showing the X-ray results. The dentist goes off somewhere, so I decide to count my teeth while I wait: an even thirty-two.

When the dentist returns, he examines my X-ray before putting a camera in my mouth to take photographs of the suspect area. The problem lies in my upper left third molar—a cavity. The news is replaced with the photograph he has just taken. The dentist is surprised by the state of my teeth; he says it is very rare to see such ‘Virgin teeth,’ as he puts it. My teeth are immaculate and untouched; I have never had any type of dental surgery before—no fillings, no tooth removals, and no severed nerves. He says that usually in Japan, a problem like the one I have would be solved by killing the nerve so the pain stops permanently. But because I have all of my nerves intact, he gives me the option to have the cavity cleaned, which he assures me has an 85% chance of success. If it doesn’t solve the problem, then I can always come back again and have my nerve severed.

I agree to the treatment. He places a numbing agent in the affected area before administering a local anæsthetic. Three seconds after the injection, I say to my friend, “I don’t feel so good.” Actually, my entire body begins to tingle and turn numb. I go into anaphylactic shock. My body starts to shake. Eyes open, mind elsewhere. My gaze remains fixed, staring off into some distant abyss.

Darkness envelops me, spiriting me away to a realm beyond comprehension. I traverse a dimension so profound, a depth within my own mind or an alternate world more tangible than our reality. Here, an overwhelming sensation engulfs me, a nameless horror that devours my very essence. Describing the depth of my emotions during this time eludes words; I exist, yet not as myself; and the memory evaporates the instant I return.

I blink, gripped by fear. As my eyes reopen, two figures shrouded in blue masks materialise before me—one male, one female. A woman, unfamiliar and indistinct, clasps my hand, murmuring words I cannot grasp. Panic seizes me. I’m adrift in an abyss of unknowing, unaware of my surroundings or even my own identity. Desperation claws at me; tears threaten to spill. Never before have I felt such terror. Who are these strangers? A momentary void swallows my memory. Was I just born anew? Did I perish? I attempt speech, but words elude me. Tremors wrack my body, not violently, but quivering with sheer nervousness and dread. Slowly, like a fog lifting, memories trickle back, accompanied by my friend’s urgent directive to “Breathe deeply.” Gradually, I emerge from the haze, shaken, tearful, and engulfed by sheer panic.

Eventually, things calm down. My friend explains what happened—about my vacant stare and trembling. My knee hurts; I must have bumped it against the machine. The dentist, with my friend translating, clarifies that I received only a half dose of local anæsthetic. I had previously told my friend that I hadn’t taken any medication for over ten years, a detail I fortunately mentioned to her. She relayed this information to the dentist before the injection; had she not, the full dosage of anæsthesia could have been lethal. She might have just saved my life. I could have remained in that other place forever; eyes open, mind elsewhere.

The dentist reassures me that I will be okay, all smiles and jokes now. I relax but can’t shake images from my head. This moment will be etched in my memory forever. The procedure is eventually finished, the cavity cleaned, and I am free to go and pay. The whole treatment and two packets of painkillers cost me a total of ¥7890. Drowsy, with my knee hurting and my mind drifting, I head back to the hostel to sleep.