I believe that pain is the body’s way of asking for help—and that eventually that help would come. You know, like a courteous knock on the door followed by a polite, white-coated professional who says, “Ah, yes. I see the problem. Let’s fix that.” Especially when the pain lives in your mouth—one of the most annoying, expensive, and hard-to-ignore locations possible.
But apparently, I was mistaken.
Today, while eating lunch, a molar on the right side of my mouth cracked. Not a cute little chip. Not a “well, that’s unfortunate” kind of break. No. This was a crack—the kind you feel all the way up into your jaw and deep into your soul. One minute I was enjoying some tater tots; the next I was holding my jaw like Hamlet with his skull, contemplating the fragility of life.
And the worst part? I told my dentist. I told him it hurt. I told him months ago. He poked around, tapped it with that tiny hammer, shrugged, and said, “Its filled. Looks fine to me.”
I believed him. He had a degree, after all. And one of those polite dentist voices that makes you feel like you're being both soothed and mildly judged. I wanted to trust him. He had been my dentist since my first tooth; 40 years.
Then he retired.
Just… disappeared. No forwarding address for my shattered trust. No farewell note saying, “Hey, sorry about the molar.” Now I’m left with a broken tooth and a new dental office where the receptionist sounds chipper enough to host a cooking show and I’m not even sure they take my insurance now.
What’s been echoing in my head all day, oddly enough, is this piece of art I found recently—Abstract Tooth No. 1. It’s a minimalist line drawing of a tooth, elegant and unbroken, like a dental diagram done by someone who also teaches yoga. When I first saw it, I admired its smooth lines, its calm confidence. Now I look at it and think, Must be nice.
Because my tooth does not look like that. My tooth is more Picasso than minimalist. More “cubist emergency” than “dental serenity.” If this artwork were based on my mouth, it would be a jagged lightning bolt with a tiny flag that says “Oops.”
Still, I kind of love that tooth drawing. It’s aspirational. It’s what my mouth wants to be. It’s the promise of symmetry, the myth of structure, the dream of dental peace. It reminds me that somewhere, at some point, someone had all their teeth in the right places, and none of them betrayed them mid-bite.
Maybe someday, after the crown or the root canal or whatever medieval magic this new dentist recommends, I’ll get back there too. Maybe I’ll even print out that little abstract molar and hang it on the fridge as a goal. A tooth vision board.
Until then, I’ll chew on the left side.