Fall of the giants

Nothing can strike terror into the heart of a man as the imminent prospect of yet another ordeal of root canal work. No, I'm not afraid of my dentists, whom I've had to go see repeatedly over the past three years. But my wallet is really smarting from being buffeted by the voracious money-gobbler called Huge Bills.

It all started when, in 2009, I found myself all of a sudden munching on something hard and stinging half an hour into our visit at "Lenny's" in Ormond by the Sea, Florida. It wasn't a grain of sand that had found its way into the batch of pizza dough by chance. And it wasn't an object that had been put into my food by a mischievous prankster. Upon investigation, it was promptly revealed that the small menace inside my oral cavity was nothing other than a sizeable part of one of my molars. After almost four decades of devoted service, the poor thing gave way without any prior notice, collapsing for good.

Sadly, humans are not sharks in this respect. Once our teeth have had it, they never see fit to resurface. Not once will you experience the sweet joy of seeing the vigour of a newly grown molar bathed in the subdued light from your bathroom downlights. Not once will the trauma of visible toothlessness be smoothed over and healed by the presence of a snow-white newbie, ready to aid you in your daily eating routines. Once the age of dental repairs crashes in on your life, you know it's a fact that you'll never own the confident smile of a Tom Cruise or a Selma Hayek.

The total outlays so far amount to around 30,000,- kroner or roughly 3900 Euros (5400 dollars). No staggering amount had I been a millionaire, but as I'm most certainly not, it bugs me that I may still have to make that awful call to my dentist downtown, relaying the horrible news that another of these trusted giants have fallen.

When I was younger than I am today, teeth were automatically supposed to remain a fixed presence in my oral cavity - there to be enjoyed forever. That's a fallacy. Teeth rot, get bacteria-infested, develop cavities, involuntarily get decorated by the much-hated braces, or simply cave in to the ordeal of overuse, it seems. Perhaps I just got what I deserved. Maybe my molars decided it was time to teach me a lesson: if you don't give us the attention that is duly ours, we just may quit when you least expect us to.

Lesson taken.