My true story began in an ancient city far away, about how a tooth and truth changed my days, my weeks, my dreams.
Wednesday October 9, 2019 It started with biting down on something hard, an almond brought with me to Rome, and a cracking sound. I should have restricted myself to a food my destination city is famous for—pasta. My finger found an empty spot in the back of my bite, an upper molar. The flashlight on my husband’s phone found a hole, a monstrous black hole.
My home isn’t Rome, but California. My tooth broke two days before I was to board a cruise ship and sixteen days before its arrival in Miami via the Atlantic. This hole needed a filling! And, yes—for those who think they can forestall similar odious occasions – I did visit my dentist right before the long vacation.
Thursday October 10 at 6 PM A Roman dentist viewed my hole and said her specialist could fix it on Monday. When I told her I’d be at sea then, she threw her hands up and uttered Italian till she found her English. “Okay for only five days. Go to the 24-hour dentist nearby.”
We did. After arduous travels, we arrived. Out front of the metal gated mansion, signed clearly “Emergency Dentist,” darkness and silence screamed, 24 hours is a lie.
To get on the ship or not, that became the question. Cancel the trip and fly to California? We seriously considered that. With great effort, I managed to talk to I my home dentist. “Get on the boat,” he advised. “Just carry amoxicillin.”
October 15 Both my head and tooth were now hurting and Ibuprofen didn’t suffice. The Roman doctor’s words proved true—my hole was past its limit. At Malaga, Spain (a port-of-call), I called a dentist. The internet informed me he and staff would speak English. He practiced on Tenerife, our next stop.
October 17 We came to the bridge of the four continents, 64 miles from Morocco—the Canary Islands of Spain. An Italian dentist there on Tenerife promised to accomplish a root canal. During my hour-long solo taxi ride to his office, I wondered, would I get back on board before our six-hour stop at this port-of-call ended? My husband remained on the board in case I didn’t. He would pack all our belongings if I called.
The dental office had cheery tangerine walls and the staff spoke enough English. “All is done,” pronounced the tall, silver-haired dentist. “No anti-biotics needed,” and I believed him.
I started the return in good time, relaxed enough to view a Cathedral on the drive back.
Sunday October 20 - Every story has a middle. Maybe my story’s middle was 3,000 miles from U.S. shores. There my gum and tooth turned tender and my cheek even swelled. Facebook friends offered valiant support, “Go to the emergency room.”
I didn’t write back to say that the helicopter pad was useless this far from shore. One acquaintance wrote, “My grandson nearly died of a heart attack after infection from a root canal.” Her comment hours later: “I don’t want to alarm you.” Worse, the report of a cousin who actually did meet death due to the same kind of dental work I’d undergone.
The doctor on board ship dispensed Augmentin for the obvious bacterial infection. In early mornings hours awake in bed, I prayed and pondered my extinction. Yet in two days, it seemed all was mended.
Friday October 25 We landed in Miami and I carried off a virus caught on ship. But I was soon to be within known and competent hands, or so I hoped. Sore throat turned to cough and congestion—a familiar story. But mine grew strange with roving headaches, strong sinus pressure and tooth pain growing. Despite resting, fatigue never lifted. Medicines helped little.
November 4 – 25 I saw dentist, a dental specialist and an ENT--7 total visits in 3 weeks. I hate spending so much time on health concerns and no energy for exercising.
Here’s to a complicating factor (the middle of a story need it to forestal f boredom)—a sinus swab pulled out a villainous bacterium, one that only month-long antibiotic treatment kills, or perhaps an operation. Egad—four weeks! Pity on me! I thought, My good gut microbes will vanish—doing away with good movements and sleeping.
Alarm turned to panic as I learned about the drugs of choice—all near toxic. But time and prayer bought some measure of peace.
Eventually a thousand-dollar sinus CAT scan proved that the bacteria had not taken up lodging in my sinus cavities. Superbug was gone! Miracle or fluke contamination—either way, hope again abounded. Still tooth pain ratcheted up and headaches persisted. Ibuprofen and Tylenol allowed me to function, but didn’t vanquish pain.
November 26 “The headache and toothache are not from the sinuses,” I told the dentistry professionals. I’m thinking, there’s something wrong with that #2 tooth, something invisible to eyes or x-rays. That left the teeth as cause I knew I wanted desperately to travel with my daughter in two weeks and the dental professionals weren't at speed. I feared I couldn't safely travel.
December 4 An endodontist promised to remedy the wrong. She’d remove the Canary-done root canal. But, lo, though she drilled and drilled, some hard root canal material would not come out! And that’s the one where the problem surely resides? Why, oh why, did the Italian dentist do this—that is fill one of the three tooth roots with ceramic?
Emails exchanged brought us to surmise, the Italian dentist had attempted to seal off a cracked root with super-hard stuff. It was meant to be sterile, but bacteria now appeared to persist in that crack above my upper molar.
My weakness had a cause. This feeling that I wanted to only stand or move for short time spans had good reason. I questioned myself, did I complain too softly? (I hadn’t want to earn the label, "hysterical woman.") But when there’s nothing visible, no objective measure, experts can’t determine what’s wrong. They often don’t believe the complainer.
December 4 - Near ending the story. ‘Morrow or tomorrow, I wonder if there’s a morrow—I’ve been wondering that off and on, on the ship, after the ENT, and once again when the specialist in extraction – an oral surgeon – tells me that a superbug probably lurks there in the sealed off crack. Three courses of anti-biotics taken off and on predispose me to such.
The surgeon will remove the tooth and root of the problem tomorrow. He warned of how sinus and roots cross and he might puncture a sinus. Like all the professionals met in this two-month saga, he promised to repair me.
Still, I was happy. The intravenous sedation he ordered sounded marvelous—much better than being perched high on a dental chair with my mouth and jaw aching, jammed open with a plastic rod. I hope, maybe the pain will go away—seven weeks and I’m quite weary of aching and whole body fatigue. What a surprise that a small thing, a single tooth, cause such pervasive and prolonged, life-altering sensations.
December 5 The onerous tooth goes, but what about me? The surgeon reported it shattered. That it should have been removed two weeks earlier. And that he cleaned things out completely. (But I heard that on Tenerife) He prescribed a familiar anti-biotic and said to go to Japan with my daughter.
I think, maybe. If I regain my normal energy by Sunday, I’ll fly on Tuesday. I wonder when and how can I know that no superbug is skulking? One thing is for sure, I’ll never again take the confident word of a singular professional to heart in quite the same manner.