Dental Trepidations

I'm not normally afraid of going to the dentist. It's by no means my favorite pastime, but I don't hate, avoid, or fear it. And I didn't this time, either. But it was my first non-exam appointment with a British-trained dentist.

Until Friday, my dental experiences have been a bit surreal, compared to the private insurance driven, gouging approach to medicine (including dentistry) in the US. Appointments are approximately 5-10 minutes, and involve the dentist quickly examining and poking and prodding around in your mouth, sometimes calling out numbers and commentary. No cleaning, just poking. And x-rays only every 18 months or so. I didn't even get x-rays my first appointment because I was silly enough to bring in copies from my previous dentist (which were about 18 months old when I brought them in, and I didn't get more taken until 18 months later. I was not pleased, especially when they didn't take an extra pic lower down to see if there was still an infection under one of my teeth. Argh).

Last time I went in, our new dentist--Adam and I got transferred to a brand-new dentist, who is about 25 years old and called Adam "sir" every three seconds--discovered a small cavity in an upper molar. Nothing said about the lower molar that my previous dentist put a watch on because it was developing a cavity, which is spreading because I can see more of it now, just the tiny new one. I asked about the lower one, he shrugged it off.* Whatever. Not much I can do about it.

So I made my "drill and fill" appointment, paid for half of it (our dentist has a weird billing system), and went back Friday for the actual filling. I was nervous for two reasons; first, British dentistry is kinda a new thing. Most Brits will agree that Americans are used to better dental care (we also pay a damn site more for it). The other reason I was nervous is because, well, Dentist is the aforementioned 25ish. Brand-new. Baby. And I need a shot of novocaine. Novocaine hurts like a mutha if you put it in too quickly. But surprisingly, he wasn't bad at all. Not the best, but the dentist I had for years and years and years was rockstar and so slow and steady you could barely feel the novocaine going in. So not nearly as good as that, but I didn't try to jump through the celing or anything, and that was good.

His drilling technique was a bit odd--drill for three seconds, pull away and look, think a bit, then repeat (all while holding my mouth open with his hand, which grew painful), but at least he didn't drill unnecessarily. He also didn't wait quite long enough for the novocaine to take full effect before he started drilling, but it wasn't so bad that I had to scream (or barf, which becomes a possibility with too much drilling and no numbing, I've found), and it had taken full effect about the third time he started drilling (the drill, pause thing happened about 9 times).

The whole process took about 15 minutes. Very weird, and I forgot that most dental stuff smells like superglue, which makes me nervous, but the filing seems to be alright, so I'm not complaining. And the one good thing--though it didn't seem to make a difference--is when I asked for novocaine without the vasoconstrictor** he knew what I was talking about, and even found some for me. Even so, with one shot I was still numb for probably 2 hours. Oh well.

Still not a huge fan of British dentistry, but at least I didn't die. And the filling hasn't fallen out.***

*This angers me because I feel that I will have to shell out for another filling in about 8 months. Yes, it's way cheaper than in the US, but the way the NHS treatment plan works is that if multiple work needs to be done, they can only charge one price. There are pricing tiers, with things like crowns being at the top end and root canals in the middle, and fillings at the low end. If you need work done from two different tiers, they can only charge you the highest one, not both tiers. And if you need 1 filling or many fillings, they're all the same price as well. BUT, this only applies when all the work is recommended under the same treatment plan.

**As copied from Wikipedia: "A local anesthetic with vasoconstrictor is a combination drug of a local anesthetic in order to induce absence of pain in an area, given with a vasoconstrictor in order to increase the duration of local anesthesia by constricting the blood vessels, thereby safely concentrating the anesthetic agent for an extended duration, as well as reducing hemorrhage."

***Apparently this happened to my grandfather; many years ago (many many: he died in 1987) he had his tooth filled, went out to pay the receptionist, and as he was writing the check the filling fell out and landed on the counter. He didn't finish writing the check, for what would seem to be fairly obvious reasons.

Neglectful

I have been neglectful.  I haven't had anything major going on, just not much to write about.  I can't do anything about my visa until March, our TV works despite the strange noises it makes from time to time (so far as we can tell, it's condensation), and I got the nurse/doctor to let me go a year between appointments for birth control (except that the prescription I was given isn't going to last 12 months if I extend my cycles, which I do--still, it's longer than 6 months).  I am still unemployed, and I am still writing, and still frustrated that this isn't coming easily.  One good day of writing should mean many good days of writing, dammit!  But it does not, and deadlines draw ever closer, inexorably increasing my worries, fears, and frustrations.  Don't get me wrong; I don't expect this story to be published, but I need to submit it.  I need to do this for myself, to prove that I have been doing something, not just sitting around on my ass pretending to do something.  And I need to submit something that isn't rough, but rather something that, if not perfectly polished, at least resembles decent, coherent, and edited prose.

The only other happenings in my life are not mine, and not mine to share, though they have been shared on Facebook (by the parents).  The generic version is that a friend's newborn is not well, and we're all worried.  Not the best way to start off parenthood, or life, and we're all praying (yes, even me) that things improve, and there are no lasting effects.

There are so many things I should be doing.  I should be applying for jobs (I do from time to time, along with about 79,000 others).  I should be exercising more (I'm trying; my weight is too high, and I think it's adding to my back problems), and I should be eating less crap.  I should be writing more.  I should be doing more with Girl Museum (currently preparing for a conference that two of us are attending at the end of February).  I should be communicating more with my friends.  I should be writing more here.

But I'm not.  I'm striving to change some of these behaviours, but they won't all change at once, and there are only so many hours in a day, so they can't all happen all the time anyway.  But I'm trying.

On the Ice

My uncle used to be stationed at McMurdo down in Antarctica.  He loved it.  I think part of why he loved it is because while he was essentially on-duty for 6 months straight (give or take), he was also granted shore leave for obscene amounts of time (which he spent in NZ and Santa Barbara, so that's pretty sweet).  They also basically leave you to it down on the ice; you have your duties, you know what they are, and you get on with them.  I would rather imagine that military discipline is not so strict down there.  He left the Navy because they couldn't give him a career doing that stint.  (note that I'm piecing together bits of information over the years gleaned from my mother and to a small degree my grandfather, so my interpretation here may not be quite accurate)

When you go down on the ice, you know the risks.  Your employer--military or civilian--makes sure of it.  Even in summer, it's freezing.  Literally.  Though military discipline might be a bit lax, safety cannot be--you could very easily die a dozen yards away from the base, and not be found for weeks.  People stationed there--civvies and military alike--get asked a different set of questions, including questions that are generally illegal for employers to ask, like "are you pregnant?"  Why can they get away with it?  Health and safety.  When you go down on the ice, that's where you stay.  They can't pull you out if you're bored, lonely, or sick.  You don't get to just quit when you're in Antarctica.  I wanted to apply for a job on the ice (I was woefully unqualified, sadly), and they asked a huge variety of personal questions, because it's lonely down there.  It's isolated, and isolating.  It's dangerous.  It's dark 24 hours a day if you're over-wintering (and light 24 hours a day if you're not).  You need to be fit and healthy, and mentally able to cope with the unique stresses extreme isolation brings (and extreme cold, and darkness).  You also need to be able to cope with the notion that you can't leave.  Plain and simple.  If you over-winter, once they get you in, you stay until they can get a flight back there, which is about six months.

There are medical facilities on the ice; McMurdo likes to think it has a hospital (it does have the largest, most complete clinic on the ice), and Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station also has a physician, and sat-links to consult with specialists if need be (yes, House was based on a real thing).  By plane--which is not possible in the winter--McMurdo and Amundsen-Scott are 3-5 hours apart, and it's another 4 hours to Christchurch from McMurdo, which is the closest city with advanced medical facilities.

I bring all this up because a woman at Amundsen-Scott might have had a stroke.  No one is sure, since the base doesn't have an MRI.  This happened back in August, and anyone who over-winters in Antarctica knows they're trapped from February until mid-late October (winter in the southern hemisphere, or "austral winter" if you wish to sound smart).  Now she and her family are fighting to get her off the ice and to New Zealand for treatment.  She's being told that they'll try to send a flight in on the 17th of October, but they don't know.  There are no runway lights, and the winds are so strong that the blowing snow (and presumably wind shear) may make it impossible to land anyway.  Plus, it's so cold that the jet fuel could start to freeze (if they shut off the engines, it could turn to a jelly-like consistency).  To risk a flight crew and any accompanying personnel, along with the plane--and anything in the way of the plane should it miss the completely dark runway--is insane.  That's why they say you're trapped down there; the risks of trying to pull you out are far too high.

I feel bad for her, I truly do.  I also felt terrible for the doctor who was administering chemotherapy to herself for the breast cancer she discovered while there (she ultimately died).  No matter how healthy you are, it's impossible to 100% predict if you will be ok while on the ice.  But one of the risks of working on the ice is that if you over-winter, you're stuck there.  You sign up knowing the risks.  I can't speak for the military, but for civvies, you don't have to take the job.  They warn you what over-wintering means.  And I imagine that for most people, the risks are part of what makes it exciting; for me, I wanted to work down there because of the extreme nature of the climate--it would nicely balance my working in Death Valley in the summer--the isolation, and the truly interesting idea of being in Antarctica, summer or winter (the job would have been in the winter).  Even balancing the risks, I would have done it.

According to the family and the woman, the real reason they're not sending a medivac unit is for financial reasons.  That may or may not be true; she's the station manager, so she is important, but (and there's no nice way to say this) not irreplaceable.  But for me, the bigger risk isn't losing the plane, but the danger of losing the flight crew.  It's a very expensive, very dangerous venture to try and pull someone out early.  They send planes in as soon as it's safe to retrieve staff, re-staff, and re-stock the bases.  Sending them sooner could mean death.  I understand that when you or someone you love is sick, you do everything you can to save them, but whatever happened to this woman happened well over a month ago, and while she's having problems (her vision is crazy now), she's communicating clearly.  I'm not saying a delay won't hurt, because I'm sure it won't help, but that's part of the risk.  And while you do everything to try and save someone you love, does that give you the right to try and pressure others into needlessly risking their own lives?  Obviously I don't know the whole story, but it does seem like the family is trying to pressure others into risking their lives to save this woman.

My Hippy Ways

First let me start by saying that moving to England from Eugene has really taken a toll on my hippyesque ways.  I know that's probably not very surprising, given the nature of Eugene, but it's hit me in some rather painful ways.  For example, in Eugene, when I had my parents' money to shop with (hi Mom!), it was a lot easier to be organic, all-natural, local, sustainable, and humane with food purchases.  Thankfully, Mom and Dad are pretty into that movement as well, so there was less cringing at 2.5 times the price for organic rather than "conventional" bell peppers and the like.  (Sidenote: Why is the spread of toxic fertilizers and pesticides considered conventional?  Surely it's more conventional, given history, to be organic?  There's nothing particularly conventional about poisoning people, unless you're in Russia, mystery novels, or various royal families throughout history.)  And though milk from DairyMart/Lochmead Farms isn't technically organic, they're local and very good about their practices.  Long's Meat Market is superb--I'm pretty sure Mike goes out and meets a lot of the animals he'll eventually be selling.

Over here, though, food purchasing is constricted by two (well, three) things.  First, we don't gots a lot of money.  And we're cheap.  It's a combination--since we don't earn as much as we'd like, we save every penny.  I spend more on food than Adam would by a long shot (since Adam does the shopping, that's a second constricting factors), since I think the quality of what goes in me is important, but even still, I make choices to not buy organic much of the time.  I also end up buying a lot of apples from say, New Zealand.  That's not exactly local (most of our produce comes from climates that don't suck, like Spain, or well, anywhere but here).  The third problem is that options are limited around here--not huge population, few stores--and people are cheap (welcome to Yorkshire), so organic choices are limited, as is, well, selection.  And usually the organic stuff is slightly dodgy looking, as is the "weird" stuff.  Hell, for the first time since I've moved here, I've actually seen uncooked, unpeeled beets in Morrisons (no greens attached, though).  I've only seen that one other time, and that was at the farm shop (the closest to hippy around here).

The biggest concession I've made Adam make is that we get nearly all our meat from the farm shop.  That's what it sounds like; a shop on a farm; they sell eggs from their chickens (they also will sell you feed so you can feed the chickens yourself--what a great scam!), the chickens themselves, and all the beef, pork, lamb they raise.  They also make their own sausages (tasty, though we do get ours from Morrisons).  They also sell some produce, some they grow, some they don't.  And they have beer, wine, an olive bar, and some random other crap.  It's not perfect, but at least it's local, we believe humane (the chickens certainly are well treated), and should be reasonably organic and sustainable.  The meat and eggs sure taste better.

I've increased my hippyness in some ways, I suppose, though.  I walk or take public transit a lot of places.  Granted, that's mostly due to our not having a car, and Tony pollutes for us, since he takes us shopping every week and runs occasional errands for us (greatly appreciated).  So I guess that about balances out.

What this post was really supposed to be about, however, was my new neti pot and my reusable sea sponges and panty liners.  I've really broadened my hippy horizons there.  I got the neti pot for two reasons.  First, I got a horrid cold twice in about 6 weeks, so bad the second time that I lost my voice (Adam was thrilled.  Jackass.)  Out of sheer desperation, I snorted some water into my sinuses through my nose.  As painful as that was, it made a world of difference, and I started getting better almost instantly.  The second reason is that I mentioned that incident to Kristan, and she told me she had a neti pot and swore by it.  It's taken some time for me to get used to it, but now that I'm getting all the water draining out of my nose (I don't think I was there, at first), my nose is stuffed less often, and I'm even hearing a little better (once I got the water back OUT of my Eustachian tubes).  Even if I'm doing a half-assed job--which I think I am--I'm sure I'm cleaning gunk out of there that's better off not there.  And if Adam doesn't stop snoring soon, I'm neti potting him somehow.

My really happy awesome purchase, however, falls into the potential category of "too much information."  Years ago, my friend Kat mentioned that you could get sea sponges--yes, the things that live in the ocean--for reusable tampons.  I don't think she had any, but the idea never went away for me, because I hate how much tampons cost.  I mentioned it several months back to Kristan (who has also gone quite hippy, which makes me smile), who immediately told me where to get some, and then told me to tell her what I thought.  So I got two sponges, and three months later when my period came around again (thank you, The Pill), I read the instructions, and ventured into the unknown world of reusable dead things in my hoo-hah.  In short, they're super-comfortable, and they work just as well as cotton tampons.  If you're in private, you can just rinse it out and stick it back in (I wouldn't in a public bathroom, since I doubt others want to see it, so just shove it in a plastic bag in your purse).  Plus, they're sustainable, organic, unlikely to cause TSS, comfortable (did I mention they're comfortable?), and, if this wasn't already clear, reusable for quite a long time (estimated 3-6 months or longer).  I used only one for my entire period, and just rinsed it a couple of times a day.  You can also use two at once, I guess, or use them for contraceptives with a spermicide.  The only downside to the sponges is that they have no removal string...I got used to that, but it takes some work.  You can sew a piece of dental floss (I think they said waxed, but I'm not sure) into it if you're nervous, but I was more nervous about tearing the sponge than it getting stuck.  I work off of the principle of "what goes up must come down."  And we only had mint dental floss.

I also mentioned reusable panty liners.  They're a bit weird (probably because I never use pantyliners or pads), but I love the concept.  Cotton or flannel material with a waterproof middle, and snaps so they function like winged pads, which is what holds them in place.  I got cotton, but I think I'll go with flannel in the future.  The best bit about them though (besides having fun patterns and being reusable--just chuck them in the washer), is that they were a good length.  Most pantyliners I've found make you decide if you want to possibly leak off the front, or off the back.  These are long enough you don't have to choose.  Plus, since they're not adhesived on, you can actually slide them around to get them just right.

What all of this really amounts to though is Adam mocking me because I'm a hippy.  But then, so does everyone else around here.  Apparently "hippy" is the new "liberal."  But I'm not "progressive," I'm liberal, so I'm happy being a hippy.

Travels and Travails

I'm back in Eugene, reasonably safe and sound. I actually arrived on Monday, almost exactly 24 hours after I got up in Manchester. Specifically, I woke up in Manchester airport. The good news is that sounds worse than it was. There's a really kickass hotel in the airport. If you never stayed in an SAS Radisson (yes, the same SAS as the airline, but not the British Special Air Service), they rock. Qual-i-ty. And it was pretty cheap for the night as well. Provided I remember, I'll upload pictures of our room in another post. That's how cool the hotel room was. Oh, and heated bathroom floors. Damn I love those Scandinavians!

Adam and I got up at 4:30am so I could make my 7:05am flight. Yergh. Plus, I forgot that in most airports these days it's damn near impossible to check in at the counter. So I didn't bother to have my confirmation number or anything. Plus, there were only four machines to check in with, and one was being used by the Austrian National Basque team and an agent (or something. I don't know if they were Austrian, or the National Team, or Basque players, but that's what I sorta deduced from their jackets. I'm not sure, though--seriously. I couldn't work out what language they were speaking, but it wasn't German, French, or Italian, and didn't really sound like Spanish to me. But a further Google search makes me think they were the Basque National Football team.). Eventually I got up to a machine, and it wouldn't accept my flight numbers, destination cities, or anything else. So I stomped off to the baggage check line, and apologized, but pointedly said that the machines are not substitutes for people. They had no problems checking me in, and even got me checked in on my Denver-Eugene flight (I was on Lufthansa for Manchester-Frankfurt-Denver).

The flight to Frankfurt was uneventful. Frankfurt airport however, lacks toilets, or at least a reasonable number of them. They also have these smoking "closets" which are a good idea, except that there is still plenty of smoke in the air around them. And of course that's where they put all the seats (that aren't by gates). But mostly, Frankfurt airport is boring. And lacks toilets. There are worse complaints, though. The good bit though, was that I was in an aisle seat (middle section), the seat next to me was empty, and it was a Lufthansa flight. This is good. The German airline used to suck apparently, but not now. Two good meals--and good sized--seatback entertainment, and free booze. Plus, two free checked bags (I only took one, but still). In the future, I'll be making more of an effort to fly on them. However, I won't fly on their partner United. I hate United--especially after they denied a guy his first class seat upgrade at the gate because he wasn't "dressed well enough." If you want more on that story, do a Google search with "United first class denial."

However, my luck ended in Denver. My God, that airport is full of hicks. I got to Immigration, and was greeted by some morons in cowboy hats and leather jackets. Turns out they're employees. Mostly, they were obnoxious. Then the woman who was doing the loudspeaker announcements proved she was also an idiot, but first stumbling over an announcement, saying "oops" over the thing, and then screwing up a guy's name five times, including messing up the spelling of it twice. And she was holding his wallet at the time (hence the announcement). Then, after I cleared Customs and rechecked my bag, I walked out and paused for a moment, looking around in general, and to see if there were any signs--including one for the restrooms. A staff member sees me, and says "looking for your flight?" It took all my willpower to not say "no, I'm waiting for a bus." I mean, seriously. There's only one way to get where I was, which involves coming in on an international flight and continuing on domestic. There's no other way to get there...but no, I'm not looking for a flight.

Beyond the inbred factor in Denver (yeah, that airport is prettyish, but does totally suck), I got the very back row window on the small plane between Denver and Eugene. That's not too bad--I can sleep there, even though the seats don't recline, if I have both seats. I didn't. Still livable. Except for the incredibly obese woman who was seated on the aisle. She was constantly touching me; her thigh came under the armrest to touch me, and she hogged the armrest. Granted, she was so fat that she couldn't pull her arms off the armrest, but still. And was is it with fat people and smelling?! Most people believe that when in public, you don't fart around others. Apparently she didn't subscribe to this theory.

After all that, I got a bloody nose on the flight. That's happened before, due to the freakishly dry air, slight dehydration, and the multiple altitude/pressure changes. The problem with it this time is that my nose is still bleeding. Not continuously, but it started up heavy again today, and the past two mornings I've spit out blood (just a small amount). So not fun, but hopefully it'll go away soon. At least I know what it's from, and it's not some scary type of nosebleed that will kill me.

Oh, and my one bridge is falling out. It broke while I was eating a tomato, rocket, and mozzarella sandwich on ciabatta in Frankfurt airport. Now it's no longer attached behind my front tooth, and will soon be detached from the other tooth. It's not noticeable, except to me (I don't think). So I have a dentist appointment for Monday. Goody. Thankfully, I don't think I need to go anywhere before then, so if it comes out I probably won't much worry about it.

Good News, Bad News: Home Remedies Edition

Good News: I found the plastic syringe type thing that Adam got for me.
Bad News: I had to spend 5 minutes digging for it before I finally remembered where I put it.

Good News: We had white (well, distilled malt) vinegar.
Bad News: Apparently we need to buy white wine vinegar (so I can make salad dressing).

Good News: I know how to treat yeast infections without spending buckets of money on creepy cremes.
Bad News: It's been a long time since I've done it, and I forgot to dilute the vinegar. BURNING! AHHH!

Good News: I probably will only need the one treatment to kill off the bad yeasties (see Bad News above).
Bad News: Did I mention the burning? AHHHH!

That concludes this edition of Good News, Bad News. Although I apologize for the excessive amounts of personal information contained herein, if you or someone you know gets yeast infections, they can be treated without dropping $18 on a 3 day box of nasty chemicals. You know, the box that also contains a coupon for $3 off your next box--but the coupon expired 3 months prior to your purchasing the thing. So you're doubly pissed: you have a yeast infection, and it cost you loads of money and there's no discount in case you get another one (which if you do, will be more resistant to those chemical treatments the next time).

Eat lots of yogurt with the natural bacterias still alive (not pre/probiotics, these are something else)--in a pinch you can supposedly take plain (non flavoured/sweetened) yogurt and use it "up there" but I haven't tried. Or, you can dilute some white vinegar (don't try this with balsamic) with water and douche with that. Please though, don't forget to dilute it--I'll hear your screams from half a world away. It'll take a few treatments of this--maybe 2-3 times a day--but much cheaper, far more natural, and if you get a really bad infection, THEN go spend the money.