My lunch is usually an unremarkable period in the day where little drama unfolds outside the occasional morsel skittering off the plate, landing on the floor, and me trying to retrieve it before our cat, Huey, absconds with it.

However, at one recent repast, I bit down into a foreign object. Not Fiat foreign, but instead something small and hard that wasn’t supposed to be lurking in my sandwich. I still don’t know exactly what it was. My first thought strayed to an old physics class where we had learned about mass and density. My second, third, and fourth thoughts were of a vocal nature with a distinctive seafaring bent. I now officially had a bad toothache.

As someone who prioritizes their health above all else, I took immediate action and decided to live with it. Not to brag, but I have a high pain threshold. I’ve weathered many gutter replacement infomercials, for example, and have also had to say goodbye to more than a few potted plants and Sea Monkeys in my time. So, yes, I know pain. Aside from doubling up on ibuprofen every four hours, not eating or sleeping well, and complaining about it to anyone who would still listen, I was managing just fine, thank you very much.

But, as you know, sometimes your body vies to get your immediate attention about something very wrong. My body — tooth #14 specifically, and technically a “1st Molar” though it usually just goes by the more egalitarian “Molar” — one day suddenly spoke to me and inquired about the possibility that I might sometime soon, if not immediately right this very second, seek professional help.

I galvanized, secured an emergency appointment, and drove #14 to the dentist. As we got closer, #14 reported hurting less knowing that help was on the way. At one point, I thought I even heard him humming.

The dentist’s exam was thorough and went off without a hitch until the end, and I will sum up their concluding report as “You have a tooth problem. You should go see a dentist.” They explained that while they could do certain things, they couldn’t do other things. At this, #14 started throbbing and I wasn’t able to focus on the rest of what the dentist was saying, but I think it basically boiled down to the difference between a mall cop and a real cop, and I was currently talking to the mall cop.

It was strongly suggested that we would need to go to Dentist #2, the real cop, for something called a root canal. I immediately thought of Venice and Panama, but it turns out that it’s actually more of a medical procedure and less of a tourist destination or shipping lane.

Dentist #2 goes by the title of Endo-something, which sounded promising as #14 and I were hoping to bring this whole situation to a quick close. After we arrived at the impressive dental suite complex, I learned that the first part of the root canal procedure was to establish a reliable funding source to underwrite the remaining parts of the root canal procedure. Since #14 had been freeloading for years, I took care of the billing.

But then it was #14’s turn because the next step was to get familiar with my teeth. The way Dentist #2 said hello was by taking the metallic handle end of their trusty hand mirror, tap it against a tooth, and ask if we felt any “pressure.” I should note that these weren’t lightweight summer-rain-taps-at-my-window taps. These were DIYer this-sucker-ain’t-going-nowhere taps.

While Dentist #2 worked their way through my tooth portfolio looking for collateral damage from the luncheon incident, #14 was cowering and at one point even persuaded the tongue to shield him from the ever-nearing instrument of inquisition. And with good reason, because after getting cozy with all the collateral teeth, the dentist suddenly and unexpectedly struck soundly on #14.

I can only imagine the legions of scoundrels, brigands, and liars Dentist #2 must regularly deal with for them to purposefully test that #14 and I were on the up and up with our toothache “story.” Be that as it may, after instantaneous liftoff and an upward flight trajectory, #14 and I experienced a brief weightless period, reentry, and almost missed the landing. And then assured Dentist #2 that yes, indeed, we had felt “pressure.” And also agreed that yes, indeed, #14 certainly was a tooth of interest.

The rest of the procedure went off without a hitch until the end, and I will sum up their concluding report as “You have a tooth problem. You should go see a dentist.” It turns out that the real cop is also sort of a mall cop and I need to go to an actual real cop because I had received an “incomplete” on my root canal procedure. It’s been a long time since I graded out as incomplete — that recurring school dream notwithstanding — and in fairness I hadn’t actually studied for the root canal, unless you include the whole Venice/Panama thing.

And so, #14 and I are soon to be off to see Dentist #3, the for-sure-this-time-real-deal who goes by the title of Maxi-something, which I believe to be an overt reference to their fee structure. My understanding is that they will need to extract #14 and replace him with a faux #14. I frankly don’t know how to break the news to #14, so I’ve been giving little hints about the “vacation” he’ll soon be taking, and that he’ll be starting a “new chapter” in his life.

I plan to send him to Venice.

D.W. Palmer lives in West Norriton. As he describes himself, “I write about relatable everyday things and hope to put a smile on someone’s face to lighten their load just a bit.”