top of page
Desola Olaleye

Self-Help and the Sceptical Surgeon

A searing pain brings me to King’s College Hospital. Two bent teeth serve no function, except trapping food and tormenting my gums. They must be extracted, I’m told, to prevent problems in the years to come. This will be the second time my smile is perforated. The first time, seven years ago, I returned home to my father’s disappointment: “Women shouldn’t have missing teeth,” he complained. Pressured to cling to residues of my womanhood, I controlled how my mouth curved and contorted when I laughed. My eyes anxiously followed the gaze of interlocutors, tracing their hold, hoping they would spare my mouth. I worked hard to conceal the gaps between my teeth. I was committed to this work. But not for long. I soon realised a laughing mouth is meant to look hideous. And women deserve ugly too.

 

At King’s College Hospital, I'm required to go through a consultation before undergoing oral surgery. The surgeon asks if I currently suffer from any ailments. He lists several medical problems. I say no to all. I'm not entirely sure, however. We rarely know when our insides start to crumble—if they are already crumbling. 


The surgeon, perhaps curious that I have given a good health report, asks what I do for a living. I’m doing a PhD, I say. “Well, that’s incurable,” he laughs. I laugh too.

 

What follows is the usual question: “So what are you doing your PhD in?” I explain that I’m researching black women’s self-help books. Soon after uttering the last word—books—I ready myself for more follow-up questions. Questions like the ones I received from my optometrist and wax technician weeks prior when we discussed my occupation—Where are these books being soldHow are these books different from other women’s self-help books? But these searching questions do not come. The room is quiet. Time passes awkwardly.

 

***

Suddenly, a sound penetrates the stillness. 

 

“If self-help worked, we’d all be out of business,” the surgeon says.

 

Discussing my PhD in non-academic contexts is often illuminating. I’ve found self-help to be a great conversation starter or booster. People have opinions about its usefulness, its imperfections, its promises. They tell stories of partners and parents who are gripped by self-help literature. But there are the sceptics who do not understand self-help and do not wish to. They are, like the surgeon, uninterested.

 

My consultation is done. As I prepare to leave the room, the surgeon hands me a pamphlet. Printed on it are the NHS logo and letters of instruction—the markings of an aftercare leaflet for patients.

 

“Here’s some self-help for you,” the surgeon says wryly. He smiles; I smile too.

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page