Pillar to post and back again

My dental woes continued today, taking a massive six hours out of our day just to confirm what I’ve known all along and be sent back to the beginning of the whole sorry process again.

As I can’t drive far with my fractured collarbone still healing, the Other Half had to take a day off work to drive me to the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s Maxillofacial Unit, an hour’s drive from the croft.

On top of that, the appointment was for 1345, so that meant we had to have the Wee ‘Un home from nursery bang on time at 1140, eat a quick lunch, scoop the Big Lad up from school at 1230 (two hours early), and fill the Land Rover with diesel for the second time this week.

Traffic wasn’t too bad so we arrived at the ARI with 15 minutes to spare, only to discover that the Maxillofacial Unit is not signposted.

We parked in the main car park, hiked over to the main entrance and then followed a stuttering series of signs through the bowels of the hospital.

Eventually, we emerged into another carpark - on the far side of the hospital - and to our bemusement discovered we had to go back inside slightly further along, negotiate various corridors and a lift, and finally find the unit where I was informed I was five minutes late.

I dared to suggest that a map or printed directions on the appointment letter would have been useful, but received a glare that would stun a traffic cop in mirror shades at 100 paces.

After waiting for a while, I did get in to see the consultant who was very brisk and efficient, tutted about the extent of the infection and sent me off for an X-ray.

Before I left, he asked about the history of the abscess so I told him that I’d had it for two years, had had erratic dental treatment for 16 months and nothing further since April.

I told him about the headaches, vision problems, facial swelling, dizziness, diarrohea, and confusion, and about the reluctance of various GPs to do anything as it was dental, rather than medical.

The consultant said all my symptoms were indicative of a chronic, major infection (no surprise to me) and while the GPs could, perhaps, have helped managed it better, he understood why they didn’t want to treat a dental problem.

Oh, and he was gobsmacked when I told him exactly how I’d twice incised and drained the abscess myself as no one else would.

Then it was off to get an X-ray, or more correctly wait to get an X-ray.

When I was finally called by the radiographer, I didn’t realise I was about to have a very, very bad experience. I mean, how bad can an X-ray be?

As I was having a dental X-ray, this means standing with your head inside a contraption that has two sections hanging down in front of your shoulders. You bite on a piece of plastic and hold two handgrips with your hands.

It was fairly uncomfortable, especially with my sore shoulder, but I thought I could manage.

Until the radiographer turned the machine on and those two sections rotated around, pushing down hard on my shoulders. Arrghhh!

I almost fainted as the machine ground and pushed right over the exact point where my right clavicle is fractured, but with the radiographer shouting to keep still I simply hung from the handgrips and mouthpieces while my head spun.

When she came over to remove the mouth piece, she asked what was wrong and after I explained, she told me to sit down for a minute before she did the next X-ray.

This was done using a different machine and was more straightforward. Well, not so much straightforward as less painful - it turned out my mouth is the wrong shape for the mouthpiece and it kept tipping over when the radiographer tried to position it.

She finally got the X-ray she wanted and I went out to wait again while the X-rays were printed.

After that, it was back up to the Maxillofacial Unit for another very long wait with a pair of increasingly fractious boys.

Just as the Other Half and I were about to stuff the boys in the nearest rubbish bin, I was summoned by the consultant once more.

He showed me the X-rays, explaining that the main problem is my immune system has turned on one, and possibly two, of my teeth.

My body has decided my teeth are the enemy and is destroying them. Lovely.

On top of that, I have secondary infections that have spread into my palate because of the many months without antibiotics. Even more lovely.

The solution?

Referral back to my dentist for treatment. (Reading between the lines, I should not have been referred to the consultant at the ARI in the first place.)

As for treatment, that’s down to the dentist although the consultant did concede there were a few options - removal of one to three teeth, partial dentures, bridges and crowns, or if I want a proper long-term solution I could go for a dental implant.

The catch would be that I’d have to go private for the implant and that will cost thousands of pounds. (Typical NHS - cheap, short-term solutions are preferred even though it will cost more in the long run than a genuine, long-term solution.)

We finally headed off home again and arrived back at the croft at 1830 - six hours after we’d left and no further ahead with my treatment than before.

I now have to wait for the consultant to write a letter to my dentist (not until the New Year as he’s busy and there’s Christmas to consider), then wait for the surgery to fit me in. More waiting, more pain and an infection that will continue to grow.

I’m left thinking, would it not have been better to incise, drain and treat the abscess back in January/February 2006, and in doing so identify the actual cause of the problem?

If that had been done, and if the NHS did proper long-term solutions to health problems, then I could have had the tooth extracted, healed, had the implant done, healed, and be about to enjoy Christmas without wondering how many more months of NHS neglect I’m going to have endure.