The dentist had no molar

Once upon a time there was a molar that thought one root was for amateurs.

Two was nice. Three was beginning to look like something. But this one had four. A kind of logistics hub in the lower right of the mouth, carefully constructed in a place where nobody had ever asked for one.

As if that were not enough, it had decided to renovate itself from the inside. A sizeable hole all the way down to the root division, with an infection around the roots that had apparently also decided it lived there.

The dentist looked.

Then looked again.

He took an X-ray.

And then something rare happened.

The dentist had no molar.

“It has to come out.”

That in itself was straightforward. Arie completely agreed. A molar that turns against its owner on this scale eventually forfeits its residence permit.

But the dentist looked at those four roots and decided this was a fine moment to respect the limits of his craft.

“Oral surgeon.”

And so the dentist had no molar, the molar had four roots, and Arie had no choice.

Joure will be called on Monday.

Until then, ibuprofen, paracetamol and amoxicillin stand guard while the suspect remains barricaded for one more weekend inside its four-rooted bunker.

But its days are numbered.

Because even a Master of Kos must sometimes accept that the universe decides.

Without offering a choice. 😇