Brace Yourself

See that semi-smile in my photo? All lips. No toothy grin. A bit Mona Lisa-ish. There’s an excellent reason for that.

At the time that portrait photo was taken, I had unphotogenic braces cemented on my teeth, and they were exceedingly camera shy. Frankly, I wasn’t anxious to have my picture taken either, and wouldn’t have but for my RWA National Conference roommate. She had an appointment to have her professional portrait taken by Studio 16 and was nervous about it. She didn’t want to go alone and pleaded with me to go with her and hold her hand. (Oddly enough, my hand did not show up in any of her photos.)

When I saw how well her portraits turned out, I was a bit envious. I whined about my braces keeping me from having a photo taken too. The photographer said it shouldn’t be a problem. He used digital cameras and he had photo-editing software. Translation: no matter how unphotogenic you look in the actual photo, you will look so glamorous in the edited photo that your own mother won’t recognize you and will ask for your autograph. Oh? Okay . . .

The next thing I knew, I was posing for the camera. The photographer got me to grin once—only once. We both agreed on immediate deletion of that pose. I was not about to pay to have my metal-mouth grin immortalized in that photo, and he didn’t want his professional reputation destroyed. We wisely stuck to the Mona Lisa smile.

I wish that I could have had my teeth straightened when I was a youngster. Orthodontia for adults is a seriously inconvenient business. Seriously regimented business. Seriously painful business.

Yes, my teeth needed straightening, but I resisted the idea of braces. I reasoned that I could get my dentist to camouflage the crooked teeth with veneers. My dentist did a thorough job of pointing out all the holes in my logic. I will spare you his lengthy explanation of why it wouldn’t work and wouldn’t look attractive. He assured me that I would keep all my teeth longer if they were straightened because I would be able to do a better job of brushing and flossing. And they would look much nicer straightened of course. They sure couldn’t look any worse.

My first appointment was with an orthodontist who took impressions of my bite that tried the patience of my gag reflex. My second was with the oral surgeon she sent me to. Huh? An oral surgeon? Now wait just a minute. Wasn’t orthodontia supposed to help me keep all my teeth? The teeth my orthodontist wanted the oral surgeon to pull were perfectly healthy—no cavities or chips or anything. Who pulls perfectly healthy teeth? The sadist who pulled four of my healthy cavity-free teeth, that’s who.

The orthodontist said it was necessary. My teeth were crooked because they were crowded; I had too many teeth and some would have to go. She pronounced the death sentence on all four first bicuspids. She said they were unnecessary and were expendable. Her heartless words brought forth a chilling revelation. I was having my teeth straightened by The Tooth Nazi.

Mere days after the four hapless healthy bicuspids were forced to make the supreme sacrifice, the rest of my teeth selfishly spread into the vacated spaces and began to straighten themselves out. I, on the other hand, appreciated the sacrifice. I was thankful. I was relieved. I was under the impression that I wouldn’t suffer as much as I initially feared. All right! Piece of cake!

Not so fast. Once my gums healed, I went in on a Friday afternoon for my next appointment with The Tooth Nazi. She said we needed to move the molars forward and she jammed spacers between them. The spacers introduced me to nerve endings I never met before.

Ow. Ow. OwieWowWow.

Macho Guy and I didn’t realize the amount of discomfort—no, make that pain—which the spacers caused. He always liked going out to dinner at the end of the workweek, so that Friday evening we went out to dinner as usual. He thought it would be a great idea to take me to a steakhouse for what he figured would be my last steak dinner for a while before the braces went on. Once the braces were on, it would hurt too much for me to chew steak until I got used to them, or so he figured.

My mouth tried to tell me that Macho Guy figured wrong. My mouth hurt when I swallowed. My mouth hurt when I smiled. My mouth hurt when I spoke. I hadn’t tried chewing yet. I was afraid to open my mouth that wide, so I chickened out and had applesauce for lunch.

I was leery of ordering steak, and I almost didn’t. Oh well. No guts, no glory. I suppose I should have ordered a nice, tender filet mignon, but being the frugal hausfrau that I was, I ordered the less expensive—and less tender—New York Strip, medium rare. I cut a very small piece and bit down on it.

ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-owie-wow-wow!!!

Taking that first bite of steak was a profile in courage for me. I did not scream. I did not cry. I did not swear. Well, not aloud. I did whimper a tiny bit. I may have whined some. Maybe I moaned a little. Oh, all right. I was not courageous. I was a wimp. I acted like a big baby. So there.

Macho Guy finished his steak in record time and then for an hour watched with an expression of pity as I cut tiny pieces from mine and minced each one with my front teeth to lessen pressure on the molars. My favorite part of the meal was the iced tea. It was the only thing I didn’t have to chew. In hindsight, I should have asked for a box to take my steak dinner home so I could put it in my food processor, liquefy it and drink it.

That steak dinner had to be the low point for me in the orthodontia process. Chewing steak with those spacers between my molars hurt worse than anything else. I know that for a fact because I remember that dinner in excruciating detail, but I remember very little about having the bicuspids extracted or having the braces cemented on.

In spite of the two years of aggravation and discomfort wearing braces caused, I have to say the suffering was worth it in the end. Once the braces came off, I was able to smile without feeling self-conscious. My dentist assures me that I’m doing such a good job of taking care of my new smile that I won’t lose the teeth I have now and there’s no need to worry about having to eat baby food one day—or drink steak.