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| My Braces, Myself - Connie's Story |
| By Connie Lepro |
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Braces are for kids. They’re for teenagers. In Hollywood movies, they’re shorthand for "Look! It’s a geek!" They’re for those children whose teeth are so ill-formed and misshapen that even dentists took pity and devised a way to trade years of pain, compressed lips, and no caramels for the promise of a decent-looking mouth someday in the distant future.
Being your average, typically unobservant and unenlightened woman of 44 years, that’s what I thought. Up until that day in late October more than a year ago when my dentist said ‘Yep, you need braces. We’ll open up a space, get that tooth out and build a bridge. But first....braces."
For years I’d known that I had an undescended bicuspid hanging out in my upper gum. Both my brother and I shared this apparently genetic trait. But I didn’t know it was anything except a mildly interesting anomaly— "Hey look! You’ve got a tooth stuck up there!" I didn’t know that my teeth had drifted to fill the empty space, throwing off my bite. I didn’t know that the receding gums I’d recently noticed weren’t due to advancing age or dreaded periodontal disease, but to night grinding. I didn’t know that the grinding itself was exacerbated by my bad bite and that everything would only get worse if I didn’t do something.
What I did know was that I was 44 years old and facing a rite of passage that I thought only children and adolescents went through. Braces? At my age?!
Two images seized me, neither one pleasant: my fourth-grade classmate Roxanne sporting a mouthful of brutal-looking metal, and dollar bills flying through clenched fingers. This was going to hurt. It was going to be ugly. And, ultimate of insults, I was going to have to pay for it myself. Money. Lots and lots of money.
As it turned out, it didn’t cost as much as I thought. It wasn’t as painful as I thought. And it was…in a way…fun.
I found my new best friend, my orthodontist, through the time-honored practice of picking the one whose office was closest to my home. I don’t recommend this: most responsible, consumer-savvy adults with a lick of sense will do careful research, ask for multiple referrals and perhaps even interview one or two before deciding. But for me, knowing that it was only 10 minutes from bed to dental chair weighed heavily in my decision. And he was, after all, highly recommended by both my dentist and, more importantly, my dentist’s receptionist.
Our relationship began with the consultation. We shook hands and got right down to the business of teeth. What were wrong with mine, how he could fix them, what my treatment options were, how much time it might take and, yes, what all that magic would cost. We discussed malocclusions, lingual braces, high tech wires, spacers, retainers, and other esoteric stuff. I think I may have even watched some sort of educational video that first day. But if I did, I wouldn’t have trusted it any more than I trusted those videos they show in prenatal classes. I’d seen cows give birth, and I knew it hurt. I’d seen Roxanne crying back there at Lakewood Elementary. I was steeled for pain.
When D-day arrived, I was early. I had time to flip through the latest issue of People magazine and closely examine Brad Pitt’s smile. "Ha," I thought, "Caps. He’s had them all capped. I wonder what’s really under there! Probably a bunch of filed off nubbins." I felt immensely cheered. By the time my name was called, I practically swaggered into the treatment room. An hour or so later I left it, vastly subdued and with a prescription for a potent pain reliever clutched in my hands.
I’d had spacers put in. I’d also had x-rays and a mold made of my bite, but it’s the spacers that I remember. Spacers are little squares of some sort of hard substance. They’re inserted between molars to open up needed space for the brace bands. I may be imagining this, but it seems to me that the first step involved cranking my teeth apart with a tool. Then the spacers were wedged up in the space created. And there they stayed for a while.
Spacers feel extremely odd and—there’s no getting around this—they hurt. Imagine the hardest crust of a French baguette you can imagine. Then imagine that an evil Toucan has pinched off little, hard bits of that crust and wedged them between your teeth. That’s what spacers feel like. The week or so that I had the spacers in was the only time that I resorted to pain medication. But only once or twice, and only in the first day or so. After that, the pain quickly settled down into an intermittent dull ache. Eventually, they didn’t bother me at all. By then, they’d done their job and I was ready to get my braces put on.
Except for having my lips stretched apart for long periods of time, getting my braces was a walk in the park compared to the spacer insertion. Bands went around the back molars, brackets were cemented to my teeth, and an ultraviolet light set the cement. Then the wires were selected, shaped, and run through the brackets.
Next came the fun part. I got to pick the color of my O-rings (little rubber rings that hold the wires on). After careful consideration, and since it would soon be Christmas, I opted for red on the top and green on the bottom. They were a big hit back at the office, as were my silver ones in January, pink in February, green in March, and orange in October. I thought this bow to the seasons a highly original idea. I’ve since learned that most everyone under 12 does the same thing. Nonetheless, my eight-year-old daughter can’t wait for the day when she too gets mouth jewelry.
When I left the office, I walked out with a good supply of wax and rubber bands, floss threaders, a list of foods to avoid, and my braces. I eat whatever I want except caramels and whole apples. I let hard candies melt in my mouth instead of crunching them, and I don’t chew gum. I notice people’s braces a lot more than I used to, particularly those worn by other middle-aged women. Otherwise, nothing has changed. Every month, I make the 10-minute trek back to the office to have them checked and tightened. And I have developed certain useful skills.
I’ve become so expert at quickly slipping rubber bands on and off that I would be willing to go up against anyone in competition. I can grab a pair of tweezers and squeeze offending wire ends into submission within seconds. I am capable of covertly cleaning food stuck between my braces and teeth with whatever’s at hand.
Having braces has even provided me the opportunity to hone my ability to maintain dignity in the face of certain humiliation. I’ve answered the question "Why braces? Your teeth weren’t that bad, were they?" more times than I like to recall. When my upper lip got caught on a bracket hook, I pulled it off like you’d pull a hook out of fish’s lip while my family rolled on the floor laughing. Bits of stray lettuce attracted stunned attention during a client meeting when I hadn’t left enough time to dash to the bathroom after lunch. And I can recommend that anyone with braces avoid eating rice and talking at the same time, since the kernels get stuck. Not a pretty picture.
I’ve also figured out that while no one can deny that the financial outlay for braces is daunting, you get what you pay for. Not only will the hours of attention and skilled effort from my orthodontist and his assistants leave me with a better-looking smile, but they may have literally saved my teeth. For me—a person whose idea of a happy retirement is one spent without dentures—that’s priceless.
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