I broke a tooth over a week ago, badly. A huge chunk of molar fell from the sky disrupting a perfectly lovely dinner party. Of course, it would happen on a Friday. It always happens on a Friday or a holiday. After an angst-filled week-end, my dentist finally called me back on Monday and had the nerve to give me the verdict over the phone. It has to come out. Not. I went to see another dentist, a boy wonder who at least had a good looky around and took an x-ray before saying exactly the same thing as my dentist. It has to come out. Shit.
The tooth is near the front. The space where it used to be will show when I laugh out loud, and at the opera when my head lolls back in my seat. I mean, I already have a decent sized gap in the front, one with a penchant for blueberries, broccoli, poppy seeds, sometimes an entire shish kabob. This new gap will be like a black hole in comparison. To replace the molar, if that’s even possible, will cost a small fortune in emergency money. Should I opt for esthetics, function or simply suck it up and embrace the universe?
I’m thinking a lot about my clients since it happened and the huge losses they have to cope with on a daily basis: amputated limbs, diseased organs, loss of autonomy, poor quality of life, the loss of life itself. I’m only losing a tooth, for goodness sake. I took it for granted, I ate lots of candy and am paying the price.
Riding a wave of sadness right now and regretting all the times I neglected to floss. Think I’ll suck it up a little later.