Ouch!

How would you feel to have a piece of your self being forcefully torn out of your being by someone whom you barely know but giving your complete trust to that person that he will perform the operation well?

I had to have a tooth extracted recently, a couple of days ago, in fact, and had to go to the dentist recommended by a friend from the Convitto where I am currently staying. The place was just two Metro stations before the Vatican and easily found. My left inner tooth on the lower jaw was suddenly showing signs of ache and a dull pain was already troubling that area since the past week. It was only early this week that my left cheek began to swell a little that I decided it was time I visit the dreaded dentist.

However, the ordeal that I had to undergo wasn't too bad, after all, as the whole thing took about an hour and a half: diagnosing (to see if the tooth was bad), X-raying (confirming that it was indeed bad and beyond saving), extracting (ouch!) and some attentive listening to intructions on what and how to tend the extracted area for the coming week for preventing infection (taking antibiotics, gargling with salt water, taking painkillers if necessary), before our next session for further check-up and post-op work.

So I was a little down and out the last couple of days and eating meals that resembled gruel, to help in my swallowing after that tooth extraction. Now, I am fine and all that's left of the incident is a bruised and darkened gum area that is slowly recuperating and an image of that extracted tooth shown to me that was once a greater part of my life. All 44 years of it!

Ouch!...