The Mystery of the Missing Choppers

A popular urban myth says that one receives birthday wishes from The Queen of England upon reaching one hundred years of age. A lesser known fact is that one receives a letter from the Department of Health and Aging just before turning thirty one - to remind you of your encroaching senility, and also to let you know that unless you buy private health insurance you'll have a permanent loading for the rest of your life.

I now have private health insurance, just before my thirty-first birthday. Without wishing to be any older, this came just a few months too late...

Eighteen months ago I became the proud new owner of a mouth plate to stop me cracking a tooth in my sleep which, as the dentist pointed out, is a lot more painful and a great deal more expensive than the plate itself. Since then, I have worn the thing every night. My sore jaw disappeared and I could drink orange juice again. More importantly, the remaining enamel on my molars was preserved. I was very happy with my dental plate, and have even reached the point where I can't stay asleep without it. Then, two weeks ago, the darn thing went missing.

I had my suspicions from the start. Evidence was circumstantial, but convincing:

1. HM was mucking around with things on my bedside cabinet. (Lip balm, tissues, clock, mainly.)
2. Happy to see her occupied, I ducked outside to hang out the washing.
3. I came back.
4. HM was still mucking around with things in my bedside cabinet.

... later...

5. The choppers had disappeared from their regular spot beside the bed.

Oh well, I thought. These things usually turn up. One night won't hurt, I thought, and went to sleep without them.

Next morning I had a very sore jaw. I searched the house. Nothing.

Next night I woke Dan up with strange grinding noises. Next morning my jaw was even sorer than before. I wondered how long it would take to crack a tooth.

It must be somewhere round here! I thought. After all, HM can't reach up high and she can't open heavy doors and she has a set routine. I'd probably find it in a shoe or something. Then a frightful idea hit me: she may well have dropped it into the rubbish bin. Her current obsession is pushing the swinging lid on the kitchen bin, and there was a slim chance that she'd taken the mouth plate all the way down to the kitchen, clack clack clacking along the hall, and deposited it inside. All was well. The rubbish hadn't gone yet and I could rifle through the wheelie bins. Nothing that a good soak in Dettol can't fix, I thought.

If you've ever had reason to rifle through your bin, you'll know what sort of experience I had. I found nothing. This was good news to me: if it wasn't in the bin, it must be inside! I'd rather not have to insert anything in my mouth that's been lying in the bin juice no matter how sterilised.

So, evermore worried for my teeth by the day, waking myself up with my own grinding during the night, I embarked upon The Proper Search. Equipped with a torch and long sticks, I poked every nook and cranny in the house. I looked between mattresses. I checked the toyboxes. I looked down the sides of the couch. Checked every shoe. Checked places that a baby would never even reach unless balanced on a step-ladder. Amazing what you find when you're looking for something else, isn't it? I even located the stiff, hollow little rodent which had been the cause of a rather unpleasant stink in the kitchen some weeks earlier.

Still no choppers.

Then, it happened. The Revelation.

It was when I saw HM standing against the toilet dunking her arrowroot biscuit into the water that I had an instant flashback. I knew with 100 percent certainty that my mouth plate had been flushed down the loo.

Two weeks ago, after a fit of cleaning, I was distracted for a brief moment as I noticed a strange 'white residue' in the bottom of the toilet bowl. "How strange," I thought. "Must be that new toilet cleaner. The residue is in the shape of a perfect arc!"

So, I peed and flushed. Just like that.

When I realised yesterday what had happened I booked a dental appointment. In Canberra, you need to give two months' notice for a check-up - dentists being rare as hens' teeth. (Ha!) But when I explained the nature of my appointment I was shunted to the front of the line with an emergency slot the following morning. After all, customers like me are rapidly becoming Gentle Dental's bread and butter. I should ask for one of those little cards with stamps on, like the ones you get at coffee shops.

I went into the dentist this morning for the most unpleasant experience of making a mold. While waiting in reception I heard drilling and hammering and screaming* and then I heard my dentist check his schedule with reception.

"This one's next, Shareif," said the receptionist. "There's a post-it note attached."

Ten minutes later he called me into his room - the one with all the horrible drilly noises emanating out of it. I knew from the look on his face what the post-it note had said:

"Mouth plate flushed down loo. Needs new one."

Shareif was grinning, and it wasn't just as an advertisement for his own business. He, too, has a daughter the same age as HM.

He showed me the mold of my own teeth when he'd (eventually!) finished. I think my response was, "That's disgusting." I'm sure some people love to see their own 'stuff' but I've never been one to jump at the chance to see an image of my own bones or a 3D view of my organs.

Five hundred and seventy smackeroos later and I hope that darn thing doesn't get lodged at a critical spot inside our septic system. That would be another hefty bill no doubt!

So, I have since joined health insurance. I hope next time I lose that transparent little piece of very expensive plastic that the darn thing will be covered.

In the meantime, folks should take note of the Chinese, who know a few things about life. Apparently it's bad Feng-Shui to leave the toilet-seat up - like flushing money down the loo!

*I'm prone to hyperbole.