I was hopelessly early for once, expecting the dental surgery to be much further along the highway, right on the edge of Prince Rupert. Receptionist Ruby had explained that they were pretty much booked solid into September, but they could at least take a quick look, see if anything could be done.
Back in the Yukon I sensed something wasn’t quite right, but convinced myself it was simply my recent tooth extraction settling down. Seemed to make sense. But then an old filling from an adjacent molar had popped out over breakfast, no doubt, and quite unavoidably, loosened by the removal of its troublesome neighbour.
Decided it would be wise to remedy the situation before venturing out of Prince Rupert back into the wilds of British Columbia. Didn’t want a repeat of the dental dramas in Palmer, Alaska. Six dentists in the phone book. Two on holiday. Two answer phones. Two replies. Both those booked up into next month. Short call – the uncertainty of a waiting list for possible cancellations – the only option. But Ruby at least had said they’d be able to slot me in for a brief examination, see the scope of the job. Hope.
A straightforward filling. No infection. Yet. And there was a slot in a few days. Did I want it? Yes, I said, enthusiastically. Another episode in the soap opera that was my lower left jaw. Root canal treatment in the now no more miscreant on my last day in the UK, aborted trip to the dentist in Bulgaria – they don’t do anesthetic whereas I most certainly do – again in Istanbul, Malta, then removal in Palmer and now Prince Rupert. Where next I wondered.
