Keeping My Teeth
I can’t stand white, but white walls, sheets, uniforms, and gowns in this ward surround me. The pristine sparkle of this institution and the smell of cleanliness depress me, which seems the opposite of its purpose. The do-gooders, doctors and nurses, with concerned grins, prod, poke and analyse my every action. They come to my bedside and feign interest.
‘Look into my mouth,’ I scream, ‘how do ya think I’m feeling!’
Their eyes drop, and they offer some soothing words.
Ironically, I’m in this so-called hospital because I love white teeth. I’ve been obsessed with my teeth since I was a child.
‘Remember,’ my Gran used to say, ‘dinnae be stupid like me and look after your gnashers!’
She’d give a grimace, her bottom dentures pointing out in cheek. She’d jangle them and flash a gummy grin that filled me with horror, and my obvious discomfort only made her laugh even more.
It was from that early age that brushing my teeth became an obsession. However, the trigger for all my behaviours was the visions that swirled in my mind. Images of me with black rotting teeth, friends recoiling to my bad breath. I could only function if I created rituals that ensured my teeth were clean. I planned every detail, from washing my hands after this or that, and then it morphed into straightening cutlery to be at right angles when setting the table to ensuring I ironed my trousers so the crease could be seen from a satellite. If I didn’t adopt these foibles, the social embarrassment of disaster preoccupied me and made me a recluse.
My phone buzzes. It’s another WhatsApp message from my wife. I haven’t seen her since I was rushed to A&E.
How are you this morning? A good night’s sleep? 07:38
I’m fine. They gave me more drugs, but it didn’t help much with the pain or my sleep. How about you?
Still, have those nasty thoughts? The Doctor told me I’ll get out as soon as I feel better. 07:38
Don’t build your hopes up. You need to recover. xx 07:43
My family don’t understand me; they tolerate my peculiarities and laugh behind my back. That’s until it happened, and I ended up here.
‘I’m just off to brush my teeth,’ I told my wife. She rolled her eyes and groaned.
‘That’s the fourth time today.’
‘It was the porridge and that granary bread for breakfast.’
‘It’s just past nine. Is everything ok?’
‘Fine,’ I chirped.
But it wasn’t. Somehow, we’d run out of my tried and trusted toothpaste. I had been forced to squeeze the last remnants of minty goodness out of the tube the night before, as my stock was missing.
Where did all my toothpaste stock go? 08:07
Let’s not start this. I told you at the time that you used it all up.
You need to forget about this; that got you into the hospital. 08:12
But it went missing. Did you take it? 08:13
This is not helping you. xx 08:19
The doctor at the hospital asked me why I had let my toothpaste run out, and I had to admit that I didn’t know. However, I hadn’t dared tell him what I suspected: Someone was taking things. I couldn’t face those looks of disbelief.
I rushed to Boots at eight that morning. It was the first time I’d been out of the house in weeks, and I was anxious. It took forty minutes of deliberation in the Dental Care aisle to decide what to purchase because they didn’t have my usual brand. The store manager seemed evasive and irritated when I asked him when a new shipment was to be delivered. Then he insisted that I buy the toothpaste I had opened or leave the shop. But what did he know? I had to open the packs to read the technical notes inside. It does matter how many parts per million of fluoride is in each tube.
The doctor at A&E told me not to stress as legislation regulated it. I’d heard it all before; not all YouTube videos are conspiracy theories. I purchased three different flavours from two brands and flitted from doorway to doorway on the short walk home, as I had an uncanny feeling that I was being followed.
‘I need to test out the new toothpaste,’ I told my wife as I entered the kitchen. She flinched and appeared to be hiding something. There was a whiff of spearmint, which was not the usual aroma of home baking. I moved my head to view what she was holding in her hand. It looked like a syringe.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied as she scrambled something into her apron.
I was momentarily distracted as I was compelled to straighten our wedding photo on the wall. It was on a faulty hook, or someone was going around and making it squint on purpose.
‘Do you want me to hoover the hall? I might have brought some dirt in from my shopping trip.’
She turned, her face black and sullen, and her eyes narrow, but she eased the tension with a slow grin.
I saw you with that needle in the kitchen. 08:25
No, you didn’t. You’re imagining things again. 08:37
I told the policeman that you had a syringe. 08:38
And I spent a long time at the station explaining your behaviour. 08:51
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said.
I thought things through. If I had a cup of tea, that would mean cleaning my teeth before and after the drink. I worried that the teacup and saucer would have to be adequately cleaned as I liked them. I was exhausted by the rituals, but if I didn’t follow my rules, I’d become agitated.
‘I’ll help you’, said my wife.
‘No, perhaps later,’ I replied with nonchalance. I didn’t want her help. It was as if she deliberately fouled up my procedures. She had a faint line of amusement across her face. She enjoyed my discomfort
You never help me. You laugh at me like you are goading me. 08:52
This doesn’t help. You’re paranoid. Think it through
– why would I do things like that? I love you. xx 09:20
I know what you are capable of. The police will find out.
You have had it in for me. You’ve hoodwinked everybody –
but they’ll figure it all out. 09:22
Please stop it. This will not help you get better. 09:32
I tried to tell my GP weeks before, but he, too, had that smirk of incredulity etched on his brow. I didn’t know who to trust.
When I declined the tea, she seemed to deflate like a pierced balloon. She returned to the morose woman who never appeared alive unless I was troubled. Happiness wasn’t her calling card. She scuttled from corner to corner, forever hiding and writing things down, tearing the notes into minuscule pieces. I tried to put the bits of paper together, but they were illegible. I had been suspicious of her, and then I found a scrap sprawled with red crayon, ‘salt, sugar, and toothpaste.’
I still have some of your notes. I’ll piece them
together to prove you are out to get me. 09:35
They are shopping lists. Solve the jigsaw and find they are
just reminders to get two pints of milk and some eggs! LOL 09:44
There you go – mocking and lying. 09:45
This is exhausting – please stop! 09:49
What did the notes mean? It seemed odd. Was it a reminder for herself? But that didn’t ring true; she was so organised with her weekly shopping. I knew she was covering up something she didn’t want me to know. It might have been secret messages. I even thought she might have an accomplice, but she had no friends. And her sudden interest in toothpaste, she only brushed her teeth once a day, much to my annoyance.
‘You don’t’ know what is in these manufactured products. It could be bad for you,’ was her ready reply to my nagging.
I felt nauseous later that evening when we were preparing for bed. Queasy with a dull pain in my tummy. She appeared behind me in the mirror in a satin-black night dress.
‘Notice anything?’ I said, pointing deep into my mouth.
‘No, what am I searching for?’
‘Look, look, my teeth at the back are going black.’ I was panicked, my voice rising in pitch.
‘I can’t see anything. You’re obsessed with brushing your teeth,’ she soothed.
But my molars were black. I was breathless, my heart was racing, my forehead was clammy, and I felt scorching hot.
I started brushing my teeth for the umpteenth time that day. I felt a tooth wiggle, like when my first tooth fell out as a child. I jolted upright. I moved closer to the bathroom mirror, my head pressing against it. There was a droplet of blood in my mouth.
‘Oh fuck.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she enquired.
‘Nothing,’ I grimaced, continuing my regime: forty rigorous brushes top left and right, forty brushes bottom left and right, finished with forty top and bottom. I rinsed, desperate not to glance at my image in the mirror. I thought it was my imagination; after all, it had been a traumatic day.
‘I’m going to make an appointment with the GP tomorrow,’ I said.
She gave a quizzical glance and offered a supportive smile. I lay rigid, willing myself to sleep. The first tooth fell out as I drifted off and turned on my side. I dashed to the bathroom, flicked the light on, gazed at the mirror and observed a contorted scarlet face of gore.
You knew what was happening to me in the bathroom. 09:52
Yeah, your precious teeth were falling out. But that’s on
you and your bloody obsessive behaviour, not me. 09:53
Why did you laugh? 09:54
You’re ill. This is all in your mind. I’ve had enough of your crap.
Telling me what to do, cleaning this or that – it had to stop.
You needed help. 09:55
I couldn’t speak. Only the deep wails of my breathing reverberated. Finally, I managed to scream, like a howl of an abandoned child. Tears gushed down my face and mingled with the blood seeping from my lips. I put my hand to my mouth in response to the next convulsion of my sobs, and three more teeth dropped out. I tried to push them back into position, but this just encouraged more to fall.
I turned the tap, and the splashes spluttered off the basin onto the adjoining cabinet and a toilet bag. The stainless-steel tip of a fine-needle syringe peeped out, sparkling like a star. It was impaled in the base of one of the toothpastes I’d bought earlier that morning.
‘How’s your gnashers now!’ drawled my wife.
In the mirror, I focused on her reinflated shape, the red of my face contrasting with the black of her night dress.
A slither of that smile appeared across her face, giving way to a hysterical cackle.
I saw that needle pointing out of your toilet bag. The police will find it 09:57
No, you didn’t, and I can assure you they won’t. xx 09:58