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Rosalie David
THE LANCET
JABS & JIBES
LIFELINE Rosalie David Rosalie David is keeper of Egyptology, Manchester Museum, and director of Centre for Biomedical and Forensic Egyptology, University of Manchester. In 1973 she established, and has since led, the Manchester Egyptian Mummy Project, a multidisciplinary team which studies disease in ancient Egyptian mummies. She is studying the epidemiology of disease in ancient and modern Egypt. Who was your most influential teacher, and why? When I was 6 years old, the class teacher showed us a drawing of three pyramids at Abusir in Egypt. From that moment, I wanted to become an Egyptologist. Which aspect of your work gives you most pleasure? The discovery of new information which adds to a subject where there is still much to be investigated. Which single medical advance would benefit most people? An effective way of losing weight that does not rely on controlled diets. Who or what do you most admire, and why? I would have to choose an ancient Egyptian—King Akhenaten, who tried to replace the traditional gods with one universal creator deity. He failed, but showed inspiration and courage. However, I doubt if the priest-physicians, swept away by his reforms, regarded him as a good thing. What was your biggest mistake? Not persevering with the driving test. Which event has had most effect on your work, and why? The unwrapping and autopsy of Mummy 1770 at the University of Manchester in 1975, the first time that a mummy had been unwrapped and scientifically studied in Britain since 1908. What is your unrealised ambition? To establish the resources and means of studying the epidemiology of diseases from ancient to modern times in Egypt. Also, to write a novel set in Egypt in the 19th and 20th centuries AD.
376
How about a filling? eeth are a part of the human anatomy that have inspired a great deal of art and mythology. Though much of it is benign, such as the childhood myth of the tooth fairy, the lion’s share has more sinister overtones. Dracula’s main weapon against defenceless virgins, for example, are his infamous fangs; and in the contemporary fiction of Martin Amis, dental problems are a whisper of mortality—a nagging reminder of bodily decay. It is no surprise, then, that visits to the dentist evoke in many a primal fear—myself included. It hardly helps when your local surgery is in a nonetoo-salubrious South London suburb. I remember descending its uncarpeted staircase for the first time, my pulse pounding hotly in my ears. “It’s only a check-up, it’s only a check-up”, I chanted to myself in a soothing mantra, but to no avail. Only a check-up: yeah, right. Because there’s no such thing as a check-up any more. Those days when I could skip from the dentist with my teeth intact, the sweet taste of raspberry mouthwash fresh on my tongue, are long gone. Now, checkups mean probings, drillings, injections, and fillings; in adulthood, something is always falling to pieces. I reclined in the dreaded leather chair, my knuckles whitening on the handles. But when the dentist finally entered, my pulse started racing for another reason. This dentist was clearly not from the same world as was my last (a Brylcreemed middle-ager with spectacles and a paunch). My new dentist would have drawn envious whispers from Greek goddesses, or made the eyes shine green in any tooth fairy. She breezed in, flicking a strand of hair from her face. “Hello”, she breathed, with the silky reassurance of an air hostess. “Let’s have a look at you.” She leant over me. She didn’t need to tell me to open wide—my jaw had long since hit the floor.
T
She gently probed my teeth with agile fingers, calling out numbers in her dulcet voice. Her brilliant-white coat rustled as she moved, occasionally wafting perfume to my nose. But after only a few minutes, to my horror, it was all over. “That’s fine”, she said, snapping off her gloves. “See you in six months.” Six months. That was an eternity. “D-ddon’t I need any fillings?” I stuttered, heart-broken. I would have given my entire set of molars for an extra five minutes. “Nope”, she replied brightly. “Well what about gum disease?” I said, “I must have some gum disease”. She shook her head: “Your teeth are fine” she piped, cruelly casual, and vanished from the room like an apparition. “Your teeth are fine” I cursed under my breath, walking home. We’d soon see about that. There was no way I was waiting six months before my next visit. I’d spend every waking hour swilling coffee round my teeth in the hope of staining them. I’d go to bed each night with a stick of candy wedged firmly in each cheek. I could even down a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and knock my teeth out on the corner of a table—to run back to the dentist, heroically cupping them in my palms. Back at my flat, I was about to leave for the off licence when the telephone rang. It was my girlfriend, who knew all about my fear of dentists. “So how’d it go?” she asked. “How did what go”, I blurted, guiltily. “The dentist’s, you idiot”, she said. “Oh that. My teeth are fine apparently”, I replied. “Great. And what’s your new dentist like?”. I sighed, my heart beginning to thump once more: “She’s absolutely—I mean, he’s absolutely . . . exactly like the last one really”. “Nothing special then?” she asked. “Nothing special at all”, I said, lying through my teeth.
Daniel Davies
Vol 350 • August 2, 1997
JABS & JIBES
LIFELINE Rosalie David Rosalie David is keeper of Egyptology, Manchester Museum, and director of Centre for Biomedical and Forensic Egyptology, University of Manchester. In 1973 she established, and has since led, the Manchester Egyptian Mummy Project, a multidisciplinary team which studies disease in ancient Egyptian mummies. She is studying the epidemiology of disease in ancient and modern Egypt. Who was your most influential teacher, and why? When I was 6 years old, the class teacher showed us a drawing of three pyramids at Abusir in Egypt. From that moment, I wanted to become an Egyptologist. Which aspect of your work gives you most pleasure? The discovery of new information which adds to a subject where there is still much to be investigated. Which single medical advance would benefit most people? An effective way of losing weight that does not rely on controlled diets. Who or what do you most admire, and why? I would have to choose an ancient Egyptian—King Akhenaten, who tried to replace the traditional gods with one universal creator deity. He failed, but showed inspiration and courage. However, I doubt if the priest-physicians, swept away by his reforms, regarded him as a good thing. What was your biggest mistake? Not persevering with the driving test. Which event has had most effect on your work, and why? The unwrapping and autopsy of Mummy 1770 at the University of Manchester in 1975, the first time that a mummy had been unwrapped and scientifically studied in Britain since 1908. What is your unrealised ambition? To establish the resources and means of studying the epidemiology of diseases from ancient to modern times in Egypt. Also, to write a novel set in Egypt in the 19th and 20th centuries AD.
376
How about a filling? eeth are a part of the human anatomy that have inspired a great deal of art and mythology. Though much of it is benign, such as the childhood myth of the tooth fairy, the lion’s share has more sinister overtones. Dracula’s main weapon against defenceless virgins, for example, are his infamous fangs; and in the contemporary fiction of Martin Amis, dental problems are a whisper of mortality—a nagging reminder of bodily decay. It is no surprise, then, that visits to the dentist evoke in many a primal fear—myself included. It hardly helps when your local surgery is in a nonetoo-salubrious South London suburb. I remember descending its uncarpeted staircase for the first time, my pulse pounding hotly in my ears. “It’s only a check-up, it’s only a check-up”, I chanted to myself in a soothing mantra, but to no avail. Only a check-up: yeah, right. Because there’s no such thing as a check-up any more. Those days when I could skip from the dentist with my teeth intact, the sweet taste of raspberry mouthwash fresh on my tongue, are long gone. Now, checkups mean probings, drillings, injections, and fillings; in adulthood, something is always falling to pieces. I reclined in the dreaded leather chair, my knuckles whitening on the handles. But when the dentist finally entered, my pulse started racing for another reason. This dentist was clearly not from the same world as was my last (a Brylcreemed middle-ager with spectacles and a paunch). My new dentist would have drawn envious whispers from Greek goddesses, or made the eyes shine green in any tooth fairy. She breezed in, flicking a strand of hair from her face. “Hello”, she breathed, with the silky reassurance of an air hostess. “Let’s have a look at you.” She leant over me. She didn’t need to tell me to open wide—my jaw had long since hit the floor.
T
She gently probed my teeth with agile fingers, calling out numbers in her dulcet voice. Her brilliant-white coat rustled as she moved, occasionally wafting perfume to my nose. But after only a few minutes, to my horror, it was all over. “That’s fine”, she said, snapping off her gloves. “See you in six months.” Six months. That was an eternity. “D-ddon’t I need any fillings?” I stuttered, heart-broken. I would have given my entire set of molars for an extra five minutes. “Nope”, she replied brightly. “Well what about gum disease?” I said, “I must have some gum disease”. She shook her head: “Your teeth are fine” she piped, cruelly casual, and vanished from the room like an apparition. “Your teeth are fine” I cursed under my breath, walking home. We’d soon see about that. There was no way I was waiting six months before my next visit. I’d spend every waking hour swilling coffee round my teeth in the hope of staining them. I’d go to bed each night with a stick of candy wedged firmly in each cheek. I could even down a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and knock my teeth out on the corner of a table—to run back to the dentist, heroically cupping them in my palms. Back at my flat, I was about to leave for the off licence when the telephone rang. It was my girlfriend, who knew all about my fear of dentists. “So how’d it go?” she asked. “How did what go”, I blurted, guiltily. “The dentist’s, you idiot”, she said. “Oh that. My teeth are fine apparently”, I replied. “Great. And what’s your new dentist like?”. I sighed, my heart beginning to thump once more: “She’s absolutely—I mean, he’s absolutely . . . exactly like the last one really”. “Nothing special then?” she asked. “Nothing special at all”, I said, lying through my teeth.
Daniel Davies
Vol 350 • August 2, 1997