<p class="title">Not long ago, I visited the dentist. Approaching the clinic apprehensively, I told myself that it was natural to be nervous. After all, there was a famous, albeit fictional, precedent. In one of Agatha Christie's books, the great Hercule Poirot tries to evade a dental appointment. I thought of telling the man in the mask that I would call on him later, but I had scarcely started to speak when he adroitly administered an anaesthetic. In went the forceps and out came the tooth!</p>.<p class="bodytext">That malevolent molar had plagued me for a fortnight. It grew increasingly hostile towards the end of December, when my husband and I were in Muscat, at the invitation of my brother-in-law and his wife. Even as we enjoyed the sights and sounds of Oman, my tooth repeatedly reminded me of its pernicious presence.</p>.<p class="bodytext">One evening, I was looking forward to a concert, when the envious entity struck! As we were leaving for the Royal Opera House, I experienced a terrible twinge that threatened to incapacitate me. My husband's brother, David, is a doctor, and he hastened to alleviate my agony. Armed with the analgesic, I sat enthralled through a superb vocal and musical performance. The following day, however, I needed remedial intervention again. David told me that I could not keep popping painkillers, and urged me to deal decisively with the problem.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Back in Bengaluru, I was overwhelmed with relief after my tryst with dentistry. I had not realised the extent of my discomfort until I was free from it. So remarkable was my sense of wellbeing that it seemed too good to last. I felt that I should pamper myself after my extraction ordeal and curled up on the sofa. Cautiously consuming a 'soft' substance I had been advised to ingest, I recalled a delicious meal that I had recently relished, despite my tiresome tooth.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Returning to Muscat after an out-of-town trip, we had stopped at a city called Ibra, where we had lunch at the home of one of David's former patients. Soon after birth, Afnan was diagnosed with a dangerous genetic disorder, briefly known as HLH. Subsequently, the baby underwent chemotherapy to destroy her defective bone marrow cells.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Some time afterwards, stem cells that matched Afnan's were collected from the blood of her elder brother and intravenously infused into hers. David, a haematologist at a reputed Muscat hospital, performed the procedure. He has since shared a beautiful bond with Afnan, who is now nine years old. Not surprisingly, Afnan, her parents and siblings hold David and his family close to their hearts.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Little Afnan endured a peripheral blood stem cell transplant. Her story (not forgetting David's care and competence) is a heroic saga. How trite and tame, in comparison, is the tale of my tooth!</p>
<p class="title">Not long ago, I visited the dentist. Approaching the clinic apprehensively, I told myself that it was natural to be nervous. After all, there was a famous, albeit fictional, precedent. In one of Agatha Christie's books, the great Hercule Poirot tries to evade a dental appointment. I thought of telling the man in the mask that I would call on him later, but I had scarcely started to speak when he adroitly administered an anaesthetic. In went the forceps and out came the tooth!</p>.<p class="bodytext">That malevolent molar had plagued me for a fortnight. It grew increasingly hostile towards the end of December, when my husband and I were in Muscat, at the invitation of my brother-in-law and his wife. Even as we enjoyed the sights and sounds of Oman, my tooth repeatedly reminded me of its pernicious presence.</p>.<p class="bodytext">One evening, I was looking forward to a concert, when the envious entity struck! As we were leaving for the Royal Opera House, I experienced a terrible twinge that threatened to incapacitate me. My husband's brother, David, is a doctor, and he hastened to alleviate my agony. Armed with the analgesic, I sat enthralled through a superb vocal and musical performance. The following day, however, I needed remedial intervention again. David told me that I could not keep popping painkillers, and urged me to deal decisively with the problem.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Back in Bengaluru, I was overwhelmed with relief after my tryst with dentistry. I had not realised the extent of my discomfort until I was free from it. So remarkable was my sense of wellbeing that it seemed too good to last. I felt that I should pamper myself after my extraction ordeal and curled up on the sofa. Cautiously consuming a 'soft' substance I had been advised to ingest, I recalled a delicious meal that I had recently relished, despite my tiresome tooth.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Returning to Muscat after an out-of-town trip, we had stopped at a city called Ibra, where we had lunch at the home of one of David's former patients. Soon after birth, Afnan was diagnosed with a dangerous genetic disorder, briefly known as HLH. Subsequently, the baby underwent chemotherapy to destroy her defective bone marrow cells.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Some time afterwards, stem cells that matched Afnan's were collected from the blood of her elder brother and intravenously infused into hers. David, a haematologist at a reputed Muscat hospital, performed the procedure. He has since shared a beautiful bond with Afnan, who is now nine years old. Not surprisingly, Afnan, her parents and siblings hold David and his family close to their hearts.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Little Afnan endured a peripheral blood stem cell transplant. Her story (not forgetting David's care and competence) is a heroic saga. How trite and tame, in comparison, is the tale of my tooth!</p>
