The History of a Molar Tooth

A Fallen Hero

I am a molar tooth, one of the big teeth at the back of the mouth. My wide, ridged surface helps break down food into small pieces. Every day, I help chew food—from crunchy apples to tender meat. I'm important because I help withstand all the occlusal force, or the biting force, properly and protect the front teeth from being cracked. Without me and my brethren, food going down the throat would be like a poorly baked cookie trying to hold its shape, making it difficult, if not painful, to swallow.  

In this mouth of ours, I'm not alone. I work with my neighbors, the premolars—the teeth right next to me, but a little bit smaller. We help each other break down food as it passes through. The incisors at the front of the mouth love to brag about taking the first bite and being the face of the group. But we, the molars, as back teeth, do most of the heavy lifting. The canines, which are pointy teeth, think they're special because they always stand out. But really, we're all just like a family. We may bicker, but we unite against our common enemy: the sticky plaque that threatens us all. 

Good times don’t last; soon, the nightmare begins. At first, it's just a whisper of discomfort—a subtle sore feeling when biting down. But after a few days, that whisper grows into an unholy scream as decay burrows deeper into my body like a colony of fire ants digging deeper and everywhere. The pain becomes my constant dread, a throbbing reminder of my mortality. Each sip of cold water sends a surge of shockwave through my nervous system. Hot soup becomes a lava of torture, and sweet treats transform into weapons of smiling serial killers. 

The most fearful day finally arrives when the dentist's drill approaches—its high-pitched whine pierces into my skull. The smell of burning enamel fills the air as the merciless instrument tears into my flesh. Layer by layer, it strips away my dignity, each pass sending shockwaves of terror through my spirit. The water spray does little to cool the heat of trauma, and the suction device seems to be sucking away my very essence. But this is just the beginning of my descent into dental hell. 

The root canal treatment is an exercise in prolonged agony: tiny files scraping my nerve channels like rusty needles; sodium hypochlorite, a powerful bleaching agent, burning through my pulp chamber; and finally, the ultimate violation of root canal treatment—rubber points ramming into the hollow cavity where my soul once resided. Then comes the crown—a new shell of my former self, hammered onto my compromised structure —a medieval torture device disguised as treatment. I looked like a Frankenstein's monster of dental work held together by modern medicine's cruel mercy, an eternal reminder of my failure to resist the mortal enemy, decay.  

Finally, the inevitable day arrives — a deafening cracking sound of my body striking the first drum. Then the dentist's tools come after, grip me firmly, and pull me out from the mouth. With a sharp crack, I'm torn from my roots—forced to leave the only home I've ever known. The shadowy comfort suddenly gives way to bright horror. Slowly, I closed my eyes. What follows is my ghost hovering above the dentist’s head, watching the procedure that unfolds. From my discarded position, I see a gleaming artificial substitute take my place. This perfect clone now stands where I once proudly stood. I learn the harsh truth: nothing lasts forever, and the old must yield to the new. As consciousness fades, I reflect on my years of service, hoping my dedication will be remembered in the story of this mouth. 

Shawn Huang is a dentist by profession who has discovered a sharp wit and a passion for satire. His writing humorously critiques serious medical policy issues and the often transactional nature of doctor-patient relationships in Taiwan. Follow him for clever, incisive pieces that blend professional insight with a comic twist.