When people think of toothache, it's usually the humorous picture of someone with a bandage round their face, like a head scarf. Usually done up with a bow on the top. I'm not sure what good the bandage did but it was a useful visual clue in the age of silent movies. At one point during one of my many sleepless nights, I did consider trying it. What the hell? I'd tried everything else. Then it occurred to me that I would probably forget I was wearing it and pop down to Co-Op looking like a right dingbat. Maybe not.
The truth is, toothache is one of the worst pains (a man) can get. I have to say this because apparently, child-birth beats it in to a cocked hat. Along with back pain, which can leave even the fittest human being lying in a foetal lump on the floor, it is the great agony-leveller. Anyone can get it, no one is immune and in the short term, there is nothing you can do about it. Even if you have a dentist appointment in 3 hours, those three hours seem a bloody long way away. I booked my appointment on Wednesday for Friday lunch time. I thought, "I'll cope"......
... I didn't. I am officially a big girls blouse.
48 hours of excruciating pain, followed. At first, ibuprofen worked. After a while, I needed to take paracetamol as well. By Thursday night, they had both become totally ineffective against my monster tooth pain. It was slowly taking over my mouth and jaw. Creeping towards my front teeth and edging backwards to my ear. Who would have thought that sticking your finger in your ear would be a toothache remedy? Thank god no one saw me.
My visit to my (new) dentist wasn't what I had hoped for. In my head, I had imagined marching in there and telling him to just pull the BA*TARD out. In reality, I sat in the waiting room for half an hour, reading the dental equivalent of 'Most Wanted' posters. When I finally got in the chair, I noticed how the Dentist made sure he didn't make eye-contact with me. How could I put my foot down when he wasn't even looking me in the eye. Clever git! He checked me over, did x-rays etc. and then gave me a prescription for some antibiotics. That was it. He didn't run out of the room and call for back-up. He didn't say, "We need to prep this man for surgery immediately". He didn't even say, "Ooooh that looks nasty". I was gutted. I was told to start taking the pills straight away and invest in some codeine. Ok but how does this help me now? Apparently, there was nothing they could do until the infection had gone but not to worry, the drugs will start working in a few days.
A FEW DAYS!?!?!
I went home and started thinking about the 4 gigs I had over the next 3 days. One friday, one Saturday and two on Sunday. Oh god! These pills had better work.
Being a musician, you get to rely on the 'Adrenaline Effect'. This is the great free-pass your body gives you in order for you to do a gig. Basically, you can feel at deaths door but as soon as you get on stage, you cope. It's like doing a deal with your body. "Give me these two hours and then you can have my body back and make my life miserable". The problem is, you usually feel worse than you did before, once the gig is over. This is exactly what happened on friday night.
I spent the entire journey to Folkestone in the van with Ian, running through different scenarios while clutching my face. What if I had to stop half way through the set? What if I couldn't start? What if I couldn't sing? What if the cocktail of drugs turned me in to a space cadet, half way through 'Rocky Mountain Way'?
None of these things happened. I got through the gig, cried all the way home and went to bed with enough codeine, paracetamol and diclofenac to kill a rhino. Job done. Only another 3 to go. Bugger!
By the time I was on my last gig of the weekend on Sunday night, the world was a bit of a blur. I had taken so many different pills I was rattling like a tube of smarties when I walked. Lyrics were becoming 'interesting' and my ability to stand up straight had flown south for winter. I don't think it actually made that much difference to be honest. Anyone silly enough to be in a pub on a sunday night deserves to witness a few casualties. It was just a bit of a shame that one of them had a microphone.
Whatever happened (and I can't remember large chunks of it), I got through my weekend of gig hell and came out the other side. The drugs started working after my last gig finished (Oh, very funny, God) and I finally managed to eat solid food again. No more tinned spaghetti and cup-a-soup for me. I had a slightly cadaverous appearance but what the heck. At least it would make a good blog entry.
