B Is For Braces

Despite the love my parents showed me while I was growing up, I believe there was a small part of them that hated me.  It is the only explanation I have for one big decision they made which traumatized me for life.

They chose a man who was professionally trained in torture techniques to be my orthodontist.

(OK, that probably isn't true.  He probably took some correspondence course, which, now that I think about it, is much more feasible.  Professionals wouldn't have been so sloppy.)

Well, there is one other explanation.  Either they hated me or they were ridiculously frugal and found the guy's name and number on an ad on a corkboard at the grocery store that read, "Cheapest Braces In Town!"  They just tore the tag off and made an appointment.

Either way, their choice in orthodontist sucked.



Before
 

How 'bout we bullet point the ways in which this man traumatized me?

* To prepare for braces, I underwent surgery to have eight teeth pulled, four of which were adult teeth.  I was knocked out, and when I awoke I had 12 teeth left.  I basically had to learn how to gum my food at the age of 10. 

* At one of my first ortho appointments, a mold was taken of my teeth.  The assistant wasn't very good at it and gagged me, which caused me to throw up all over myself.  Did she take the mold thing out so I could puke in peace?  No.  She put me in a chokehold so I couldn't move and waited the three (or was it a million?) minutes for the mold to set.

*  To add insult to injury, she then wrote on my chart that I am a "gagger".  That moniker stuck with me for years and years.  As an adult, I went to a new dentist in a new city, and one of the first things the hygienist said was, "Oh, I see you're a gagger." 

*  Two days before my braces were to be put on, I fell on the playground.  My bucky-beaver tooth went right into my bottom lip, and I had to get three stitches in it.  The orthodontist decided I was to keep my appointment.  My mom agreed.
 
*  Paying zero attention to my still-swollen, stitched-up lip, the ortho yanked my gerbil-sized mouth open to get a good look at my horse-sized teeth.  The pain.  Oh, mercy, the pain.

*  After I screamed, the orthodontist left the room, then came back with a spray can.  He sprayed my entire face.  It was some sort of numbing concoction, which he probably got on the black market.  My entire face went numb.  Sure, I couldn't feel him pulling my stitches to their breaking point, but I couldn't feel my eyelids, either.  All I could think was, "Am I blinking?  For the love, tell me if I'm blinking!" 

*  My orthodontist had Parkinson's.  No joke.  While I have nothing against people with this disease, and in fact have much compassion for them, this man was dangerous.  He would accidentally pinch me with the utensils, leaving me with blood blisters on my lip.  (Yes, the very same lip that had previously been stitched.)

During
 

*  I had the old-fashioned kind of braces, of course, that completely encircled every tooth and were put on with an unbelievable amount of cement. There was a wire that went through itty bitty holes in the front of each band.  It wasn't until the wire was in that he could tell if the wire was too long.  Instead of taking the wire out, he would put the metal sander in my mouth.  The sander would be spinning at lightening speed, when he shoved it aaaaaaaall the way to the back of my mouth in order to sand the wire down.  Smoke and metal dust actually poured out of my mouth.  One false Parkinson's twitch, and my cheek would have been sliced open. 

I have never been so terrified as those days when the wire needed to be changed.

After
Really, what's the point of fixing the teeth when you are walking around with such horrible clothes and hair?

This torture went on every three weeks for two years.  Two very long years.

So, when our dentist told me that Phoenix needed to see an orthodontist, I broke out in a cold sweat.  My poor baby will NOT be treated in such a manner!  I don't care how often he annoys me by not brushing his hair or goofing off at the store, my son will have the best orthodontia money can buy!

Sure, we won't be able to afford pants to fit the boy who never stops growing, and he'll have to go around wearing floods and/or capris for a couple of years, but God as my witness, he will have a youngish, compassionate, healthy, steady-handed orthodontist!

Day 2.  B word.  Check.

Have a lovely day!