A few days ago, on the eighth day of the nineth month of the year two thousand and twenty two, I began my twenty-third year of living and working in this country. There has not been a single easy year, private or otherwise. Especially since the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic, it has been an ordeal with some work having disappeared completely.
Late afternoon of the last Friday of April, crunching almonds with cereal broke one of my front teeth. This tooth had been most vulnerable since my junior high school days. On a winter day, all the classes of the grade went to the Science Center to study I don’t remember what. After all was done for the tour, many kids formed lines to drink some water. One of those places where you can find rotatable taps for drinking water. When my turn came and my month was a few centimeters away from the tap (you wouldn’t touch the tap, would you?), the kid right behind me pushed my head against the tap. And the tap, rotated upside down (or downside up), shaved off the back part of my front tooth. It was painful.
My mother didn’t care except that she brought me to a dentist that evening, who removed exposed nerves and filled the hole with cement.
With the lower half of this front tooth gone but no pain (no nerves), I spent a sleepless night, thinking that I would have to wait until the next Monday and there would be no dental clinic open on weekends. The next day, being inpatient, I checked online dental clinics which were open over weekends and found one in the neighborhood, a five-minute walk. I just hopped into the clinic with no appointment. After waiting for half an hour, I met a young dentist, who, after having a quick look at the condition, said crowning would do, whatever it means. He took a few X-ray photos and found a light shadow at the root of the tooth and wondered what it was, but he still seemed confident of crowing work to solve all. I asked how much the crowing work would cost. More than a thousand dollars. Oh.... But no choice. I told him to go ahead.
He started preparing the molding necessary for the crowing, and after some time, I heard the clink sound of two things dropped onto a metal tray. I couldn’t see what was happening inside my mouth. He showed me with a mirror what remained of the tooth. Oops. I didn’t see the tooth anymore. I thought to myself that that was why my saliva tasted salty. What remained was only a piece of vermicelli. Now the only option is an implant surgery or a big gap. Again I asked the dentist how much it would cost. More than five thousand dollars. Five thousand.... Three thousand for this surgery today and a finishing work to beatify it after four months. I will see him next week.
Early July, the Ministry of Manpower, which controls foreigners living here to work, prompted me to renew my visa. Always nuisance, but something that needs to be done, so far as I wish to stay here, which I’m not very sure. After I submitted my renewal application, I received a message from the Ministry asking for more documents, mostly financial, just like for the previous years. Then, a letter of rejection, saying that the Ministry would reconsider its negative decision if I could present evidence that showed my company could sustain its business with its current dismal financial condition.
To appeal, I submitted my own letter emphasizing that the current situation was because of the pandemic and five testimonials, three from Singapore and two from Japan, that helpfully described the necessity of me to remain here. It was July 11.
On July 15, I received a letter of approval from the Ministry.
And my landlord, a nice may who I’ve known for so many years, decided to sell this place. This happened last year too. Back then, he told me essentially that he didn’t want to sell it but the property agent advised me to sell it. Again, that agent. Every time he sends me a message, it is on WhatsApp in truncated and ungrammatical English, filled with so-called emoji. Who are you kidding? For serious business transactions, I would be happier if I could receive his messages in a way that is a little bit more professional. And every message from him, with no exception, causes powerful and automatic allergic reactions to my mind as he is a member of Soka, which is a main culprit of the destruction of my family. I have to reply to his latest message, sent to me a few days ago, of course on WhatsApp, which is certainly bad news and I have no mental strength to read. Emoji people are illiterate. Emoji are not moji. I’ll try to read his latest message tomorrow.
Because of all these things, I often feel panicked as I can feel relentless blood-pumping in my wrists and ankles without touching them and fear the veins may rupture. I may be able to feel easier if I make a tiny hole to one of those veins to release the pressure.
