I’ve now had a progressively worse and worse toothache for going on twelve hours. I’ve been to the dentist and I’ve got new antibiotics. I’m now just waiting for them to kick in, which in all likelihood the effect of which I may not feel until tomorrow. I can’t take any more painkillers for a while, they don’t seem to be doing anything anyway.
I’ve had two nurofin plus at 9.30am. I took the antibiotic – to be completely correct it was penicillin – at 10.30 with breakfast in Big Mouth. I took three aspirin at elevenish and I took two panedine forte just after 12pm when I got home.
It is now 13.20 and the pain has subsided to a bearable throb.
I’m now not prepared to put up with this pain for much longer, so if the antibiotics don’t start kicking in pretty damn soon, I’ll be fronting up to the dentist early next week and saying, “Just take it out, I can’t do this any longer.” Front tooth or not, it will have to go.
I don’t know how people with terminal illnesses do it? If there was no relief in sight for what I’m feeling now, I’d be saying, Doc, switch me off.
The pain probably wouldn’t now be so bad, if only I’d gone down yesterday afternoon and got the tablets. Stupid me.
It’s windy and the wind chimes are ringing a treat… I’m having an out of body experience, which involves me lumbering out there like a gorilla and ripping them down as if I am a man possessed and throwing them into next week.
Sam arrives after work to pat me for my pain and to look after me.
Actually, he says that I never listen and that I should have had the tooth ripped out weeks ago when I first saw the dentist and that I only have myself to blame.
"I don't want to hear any future complaints about sore teeth."
"Isn't that your job as boyfriend?"
He just looks at me the way he does.
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