Yesterday I had my #14 molar pulled, or, as they say, "extracted." I was upset about it. I've had that molar for more than 30 years, longer than I've known some of my closest friends, and I dined with it every night and never thought about it until it went bad. We went through a gummi bear phase together, in the 80s, and tapas, in the 90s, good old #14. Old shoe. Fit me like a glove.
The hole where it used to be is not a hole, it's a pit, basically. Something could be mined out of there. I have gigantic teeth, like all the Hawkins women. At family reunions I know from whence I came: flesh-tearers. Big smilers. Fat-ass molars. It's where we put our energy reserves, I guess.
The oral surgeon said, sure you can keep your tooth, whatever bits are left, I expect it will shatter. But it didn't, whatta pal #14, a trooper, an English peasant gal. It came out intact, thick as the pinky on an infant. Three-rooted, strong shouldered, but dead - it was nobody's fault, the oral surgeon said.