Some of you may remember me from Eliza Goes To Sweden, that epic bestseller of 2006. It’s been almost three years since I documented my student exchange to Lund University. In the meantime, I’ve become a better writer, a more fastidious punctuator and have learned never to mention sex on a blog again (except in a hypothetical/philosophical manner) to avoid familial fall-out.
But don’t worry - what I can guarantee is a well-meaning but inevitably irregular attempt at giving you semi-lucid anecdotes, observations and self-important rants on my second exchange experience. As many people wiser than myself have cautioned, keep your expectations low and you’ll be pleasantly surprised.
I leave for Berlin in 29 days. In between now and then there sits a big fat to-do list. Yesterday I triumphantly, and a little groggily, crossed off the most feared item: the extraction of not one, not two and not three, but, ladies and gentleman, four wisdom teeth from my overcrowded mouth.
It’s a part of human nature to fear the dentist. Some of my friends have found enough plausible excuses to avoid the trip for ten years. For me, the experience hasn’t been as bad since my dentist is also my uncle - a key player in the cast of useful professionals littered throughout my extended family. But ever since I was diagnosed with impacted wisdom teeth five long years they have sat in my jaws like a ticking time bomb. Yesterday, that bomb was detonated. Or defused, as I’m sure my surgeon would prefer to describe the process. If he was also prone to stretching a metaphor.
Ever the worrier and control freak (arguably both traits the study of law thrusts upon you) I’ve been collecting teeth extraction stories for quite a few months now. Some of these stories reassured me, some only confirmed the horror that awaited me.
I leave for Berlin in 29 days. In between now and then there sits a big fat to-do list. Yesterday I triumphantly, and a little groggily, crossed off the most feared item: the extraction of not one, not two and not three, but, ladies and gentleman, four wisdom teeth from my overcrowded mouth.
It’s a part of human nature to fear the dentist. Some of my friends have found enough plausible excuses to avoid the trip for ten years. For me, the experience hasn’t been as bad since my dentist is also my uncle - a key player in the cast of useful professionals littered throughout my extended family. But ever since I was diagnosed with impacted wisdom teeth five long years they have sat in my jaws like a ticking time bomb. Yesterday, that bomb was detonated. Or defused, as I’m sure my surgeon would prefer to describe the process. If he was also prone to stretching a metaphor.
Ever the worrier and control freak (arguably both traits the study of law thrusts upon you) I’ve been collecting teeth extraction stories for quite a few months now. Some of these stories reassured me, some only confirmed the horror that awaited me.
One friend’s dentist had to climb up on her dentist chair and brace his knee against her chest to get enough leverage to pull out a particularly recalcitrant molar.
Another was so visibly nervous that the doctor gave her a pre-op drug to make her happier, then had to quickly knock her out when she started singing.
But the good thing is that I’m not alone. It seems nearly all of my demographic get it done in the holidays. The nurse rolled her eyes when she saw what procedure I was in for, then said she doubts that there’s any wisdom teeth left in in Melbourne.
It took about six hours from the time mum dropped me off at the Epworth until I was wheelchaired out again by a particularly attractive male nurse, clutching my drug bag and the few scraps of dignity I’d managed to keep after parading around in the bumless surgical gown. I’m now back at the Whitby Street Mansion convalescing.
It took about six hours from the time mum dropped me off at the Epworth until I was wheelchaired out again by a particularly attractive male nurse, clutching my drug bag and the few scraps of dignity I’d managed to keep after parading around in the bumless surgical gown. I’m now back at the Whitby Street Mansion convalescing.
Dougal and Greg, my housemates, have agreed to care for me. I haven’t seen them for a month because they’ve been touring Queensland’s top end. I’ve missed them terribly. But now I get to kill two birds with one stone – as well as having the pleasure of their company again, they also serve as obedient man servants providing me succour and indulging my self-pity. The have gone to special lengths to make sure I don’t feel like an incoherent, chipmunk-faced freak – they’re also refusing to leave the couch through West Wing marathons, eating my chocolate ice cream with/instead of every meal and even dribbling food down their chins.
I’ll be back on my feet in a couple of days. Until then I’ll lie in bed, avoid solids and stare longingly at my map of Germany on the wall. And decide on the next item for execution on my to-do list.
I’ll be back on my feet in a couple of days. Until then I’ll lie in bed, avoid solids and stare longingly at my map of Germany on the wall. And decide on the next item for execution on my to-do list.
