Tag Archives: toothache

The Tooth Without Enamel

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Today marks the final day in Japan to admire the autumn leaves. Abscission has commenced, and the leaves are poised to fall. It’s as if some secret internal clock, powered by nature, instructs the trees that today is the day to part ways with their foliage. Cascading like clockwork, fading like time. Today, the leaves will begin their descent, and there is no changing that fact. The Japanese people inform me that it starts today. The trees, too, are aware that it starts today. The ground outside is a wash of greens, yellows, and reds. A reflecting traffic light on a rain-swept road would complement the scene perfectly. Today is clear with sunshine, dry but with a light breeze. No rain, no reflections. I step outside for one last time to relish in the autumn colours. Tomorrow, there will be nothing left.

autumntrees[1]

Despite my obvious fascination with the tranquil joy of autumn colours, I am distracted—still suffering silently from a toothache. The dentist doesn’t open until half-past two, and with an afternoon lunch planned, I decide on a 4 p.m. appointment. I take the train to Harajuku. Today, two very different festivals are taking place in the space outside Yoyogi Park. The first is a vegan food festival, and the second is a Spanish food festival.

I exit the train at Harajuku Station. On the other side of the ticket barrier, a young Japanese man with a microphone awaits. Like an animal waiting to catch its prey, he stands silently until I draw near. Suddenly, he rushes into my path, stopping me in my tracks and interrupting my thoughts of dental disquiet. “Excuse me, can you speak English?” he asks, holding the microphone rather intrusively beneath my chin before pushing it toward my mouth, seeking a reply. I hesitate for a moment, unprepared for his question.
“No, sorry,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he says, looking at me with a mix of confusion and wry disappointment. “Okay, sorry then.” With that, he scans his Suica card on the ticket machine and heads through the barrier in the direction of the platform; his outline lost in seconds as he is swallowed up by the reckless crowds.

I arrive at Yoyogi Park to find the Spanish festival in full swing: various food stalls, eleven of which are selling paella, traditional Spanish clothing, and flamenco dancers performing on the large stage. The dancers appear to be genuinely enjoying themselves, their souls lost to the rhythm of the music.

espana[1]

I didn’t come all this way to be harassed by men with microphones or to listen to Spanish music, though. Today, my purpose is the vegan festival. As I wander from Spain, I inadvertently end up in Germany. Somewhere between the two food markets, car manufacturer BMW has a stage showcasing their newest electric car, the BMW i8. I can’t quite see what this has to do with the Spanish festival or a diet free from animal products. The BMW stage looks incredibly out of place; it is mostly ignored by the many people clearly here to eat food.

At the vegan food festival, there is a lot less hot food than I expected. Most of the stalls are selling organic and Fair Trade products—coffees, chocolates, teas, sugars, and various types of bread. There are only about ten hot food stalls, but almost all of the food has already sold out. I am spoiled for choice between a shop selling Indian curry and another selling vegan burgers.

¥500 later, and I’m sitting on a park bench, eating a burger, surrounded by fallen leaves that probably taste better than my food. If not for the sauce that adds at least a hint of flavour, I would likely discard the burger and rush back to Spain for some lukewarm paella instead. As I leave the festival, I notice that the people browsing the vegan stalls seem less happy than those over at the Spanish festival.

vegefestival[1]

Literally full of beans, I head back to Asakusa and to the dentist. I’ve chosen to visit a much smaller surgery than the one I had been to previously—an English-speaking dentist I met in a bar, and I’ve kept her business card for a day like today. At the dentist, I endure four separate x-rays before a quick fix is done on my tooth. I make an appointment to return in two weeks’ time. It looks like my tooth will face the same fate as the autumn leaves—an abscission of sorts. After an hour at the dentist, I pay ¥9720 and receive another packet of little yellow pills. I am told that if I apply for a Japanese insurance card, I can reclaim two-thirds of the cost of this treatment and all subsequent treatments—a welcome bonus and information they didn’t really have to disclose.

Tooth sorted, I head over to Cafe Byron Bay to play at an open mic night—my second time today before a microphone. At some point during the evening, I receive a phone call from my dentist. She is calling to check how my tooth is doing. I am surprised she made the effort to see how I am—an excellent example of customer service in Japan. Despite knowing that in two weeks, I’ll have my tooth severed without anæsthesia, her compassion somehow relaxes me. I forget about my fate and enjoy the rest of the evening, virtually pain-free.

In an Interstellar Burst

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Toothache has returned. After two full months of remaining silent in the corner of my mouth, the pain floods back like a terrible memory. My previous trauma at the dentist is once again vivid in the forefront of my mind. Luckily for me, I still have some little yellow pills from my last visit to the dentist, and these will do for today to both numb the pain and numb my nerves.

I cycle to Seven Eleven. The moment I park my bicycle, a policeman appears out of nowhere, parking his bicycle next to mine as if intentionally blocking me in. He hops off his bike at practiced speed and starts speaking in a language so fast it might not even be Japanese anymore, pointing at me. Eventually, he asks, “Buy?” Presumably, he wants to know if the bicycle I was riding is stolen or actually my own. I hand him my residence card, and he punches my bicycle registration number into a small digital device. “Okay,” he tells me, handing back my card before riding off just as quickly as he appeared.

I leave the stolen bicycle at Minowa Station and take the Tokyo Metro Hibiya Line. Thirty minutes later, I arrive in Roppongi. My first stop today: a spot of traditional British lunch.

fishandchips[1]

I am yet to see a sign for an ‘English Restaurant’; perhaps such a restaurant doesn’t exist. ‘Malins Fish and Chips’ is the closest thing I will probably find in Japan. My lunch is served to me in a newspaper-covered box: fish, chips, and mushy peas. A home comfort in the shape of a stereotype. The peas taste horrible, but the fish and chips are very good. I also order a fish cake. Sadly, this restaurant gets it completely wrong, and I am presented with something that looks and tastes nothing like the fish cakes I am used to back home.

I wander over to Roppongi Hills, an area rich with overpriced apartments, five-star hotels, and expensive shops selling ‘luxury’ goods—things people don’t really need. There are valuable bowls that are merely display pieces, candles costing over ¥10,000 each, and sofas with price tags equivalent to the average annual salary in Japan. After leaving the shops, I head out into a makeshift courtyard, only to find a giant spider outside.

spiders[1]

This bronze statue was made by the French artist Louise Bourgeois and is one of the largest sculptures of a spider in the world. Many people are here taking photographs or posing beneath her egg sac. I snap a quick shot before heading up an escalator that leads into a cinema.

One of the main reasons I came to Roppongi today, other than to eat fish and chips, is to watch the movie ‘Interstellar.’ I pay ¥1800 and head inside to find my seat. The Japanese cinema experience is no different from what I am used to: adverts, terrible trailers for upcoming releases, and cute characters telling everyone here to, ‘Switch off your mobile phone,’ and, ‘Do not talk during the movie.’ About halfway through the movie, my little yellow pill decides to wear off. I am already in pain from having to listen to Matthew McConaughey mumble through his lines. Now I have a second level of pain, further adding to my misery.

After what feels like seven hours, the movie finally ends. I leave the cinema and head over to Tokyo Midtown to see some over-the-top decorations.

overboard[1]

After looking at the decorations outside the overpriced stores, I head to a small ice cream shop. The staff here are the happiest people in the world. A sign at the counter declares, ‘We sing for tips.’ I order strawberry cheesecake ice cream in a waffle cone, with a latte for good measure. It is possible to request a favourite song, and the staff will cheerfully sing it as they prepare the delicious homemade ice cream. “Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O,” they sing to the man in the queue before me—an odd choice for a favourite song. I doubt the staff will know any Radiohead, so I don’t trouble them by asking. My ice cream and coffee cost me ¥940, another casualty of an expensive Roppongi.

After dessert, I discover that Tokyo Midtown is having its annual winter illuminations, known as ‘Midtown Christmas.’ Since I’m already here, I decide to check them out.

millionleds[1]

The illuminations are impressive, far better than those at Tokyo Dome. There are multiple displays, including Christmas trees that line the roads and champagne glass-shaped lighting arrangements. However, the highlight for me is the ‘Starlight Garden’—millions of dancing lights, cool smoke machine effects, and haunting music. It’s very blue. I watch for a while, transfixed by the light show, before pondering that the electricity bill here must be massive. Heading back to the station, I buy a selection of expensive cheeses before taking the train bound for Minowa.

On the train ride home, my mind is consumed by broken time paradoxes, millions of blinking blue lights, and my lingering fear of dentistry.

Rock, Shock and Tooth Aching Perils

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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.

rox[1]

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.

dentist[1]

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.