It began on Friday.
Not with blood. Not with screaming. Not with a dark figure at the end of the corridor.
With a molar.
4-6. Lower right jaw.
It had probably lived there for decades without causing any significant trouble. A respectable neighbour at the back who never complained and simply did its share of grinding potatoes, steak and everything else life pushed into the mouth.
Until Friday.
First there was pain.
Not immediately unbearable. More of an announcement.
I am still here.
Arie ignored it.
That was a mistake.
Something had gathered deep beneath 4-6. An infection had occupied the area around the roots and slowly began increasing the pressure.
And 4-6 did not have two roots.
Nor three.
It had four.
Four legs with which the monster had anchored itself firmly in the lower right jaw.
By Saturday, the message was no longer subtle.
The pain spread through jaw and head. Sleeping became negotiation. Eating became a technical operation. The emergency dentist took an X-ray and looked at what was happening beneath 4-6.
A sizeable hole. Down to the root division. Inflammation around the roots.
The verdict was simple.
“It has to come out.”
Fine.
Go ahead.
But no.
Four roots. Infection. Not a job for here.
Oral surgeon.
Except it was the weekend.
And 4-6 knew the opening hours.
What followed was a pharmacological chess match. Ibuprofen 600. Paracetamol. Amoxicillin. Watching clocks. Calculating. Waiting for something to begin working, then already feeling when it stopped.
Cannabis oil was even discussed.
Not to make life more cheerful.
To keep it cheerful at all.
The night was long.
On Sunday, 4-6 decided it had not yet received enough attention.
The pain increased. The emergency dentist was called again. Chewing almost stopped. Smoothies, buttermilk and peanut butter kept the patient upright.
Thoughts involving string and a door passed by.
Fortunately, they remained thoughts.
Eventually it was the emergency department.
There, an oral surgeon came to look.
He saw the infection and was indignant that the emergency dentist had not made an incision to relieve it.
That was an exceptionally reassuring statement.
You never want an oral surgeon looking into your mouth with an expression that says:
Who on earth left this like this?
But the monster remained.
One more night.
Monday, 11:40 a.m.
After three days of pain, antibiotics, ibuprofen, paracetamol, emergency dentists, the emergency department and oral surgeons, the moment had finally arrived.
4-6 was going to die.
Then came the unexpected plot twist.
The person carrying out the sentence was…
a trainee.
Stephen King would not have dared write it.
The monster had no intention of departing with dignity. No simple tug. No liberating pop followed by someone triumphantly holding up a complete molar.
No.
4-6 had to be dismantled.
In pieces.
The fortress was taken apart bit by bit. What had been one immovable structure for years disappeared piece by piece from the lower right jaw.
Until nothing remained to hold on with.
Then something happened that had seemed impossible for three days.
4-6 was gone.
A crater remained.
And a half-numb mouth.
But also silence.
Wonderful silence.
So ended the weekend of the four-legged monster. Not with a heroic oral surgeon performing the most complicated operation of a twelve-year career.
But with a trainee who apparently thought:
Oh well. Four roots. Still just four roots.
Perhaps there was a small lesson hidden in that.
We need one another.
The dentist who takes the X-ray. The nurse in the emergency department. The oral surgeon who sees what is really happening. The person who dispenses the medication. And eventually even someone still learning the profession, but who does what is needed at exactly the right moment.
The protagonist walked outside with one fewer molar and a mouth that, for now, obeyed him only partly.
But he walked.
Somewhere deep beneath Friesland, one final voice sounded:
I am still here.
No.
Not anymore.
4-6 is no more.