Another one bites the dust. Literally.

Another tooth broke off.  I think that's the fifth one in a year - maybe sixth.

She mentions it like her fingernail broke.  I looked at it and just groaned.  That chunk of tooth (actually, the gold crown with some tooth underneath) now sitting on her walker represents more appointments, more questions, more decisions.  What does one do for an 89-year-old hospice patient?  Of course, comfort is first.  But how much 'fixing' is the right amount?

She keeps saying, My mother didn't teach me to brush twice a day.  OK, Mom, I get that, but what about the seven decades since then?  Oh well.  Off we go to the dentist.  Again.