A beautiful smile is always in style: Round Eight
The worst is over, friends. At least that’s my naive assumption.
So I went back to the ortho yesterday to get the fourth and final tooth pulled. “Are you serious?” asked D., the other assistant at the desk. “He’s really going to pull another tooth? “Yes,” I answered. “I think his secret strategy is to slowly pull every tooth in my mouth, then replace the whole thing with new dentures.”
Doc got nervous in between giving me shots, because I kept telling him how much I hated this. To make me less anxious, he decided to flirt with me, without knowing how lame and overdone and ineffective that strategy actually is. “You know I love you,” he said, novacaine needle in hand. “I DON’T CARE,” I said, and meant it. By the time he had to do five shots to my upper pallette, he leaned down and whispered nervously: “Now listen, there are other patients here. Please don’t scream.” (I have this tendency to scream and/or cry and/or shout if I start experiencing pain. I find it’s a helpful and expedient way to alieve said pain, and increase the doctor’s precaution and gentleness.) “Promise you won’t hurt me,” I told him. “I can’t promise you that,” he sighed.
At least he doesn’t lie to me. I can’t stand liars.
Long story short: fifteen minutes and several pairs of pliers later, my tooth was out. Then they changed the upper wire, pulling it tighter (which again made me cry, although I tried really hard not to), then he attached a practically invisible clear plastic elastic band between my high-up exposed tooth in the gum and a molar in the back. The intent is to pull down the impacted tooth into the place of the tooth they just pulled. All of this merely validates my assertion that fast and effective dental health is gained not by a year at the ortho when you’re 27, but by slamming your teeth into a fire hydrant when you’re in your teens so you can get dentures and never have to worry about anything ever again.
But now for the absolutely awful news of 2005: Hot hot ortho assistant Gael is moving back to Brazil. In a month. For four-year dental school. “Your next appointment is August 5th,” he told me. “That might be the last time I ever see you…”
[Enter my self-centered heart breaking like crooked teeth against a fire hydrant.]
Nobody told me the hot orthodontal assistant would be leaving! This is a tragedy! What’s the point of going now? Where’s my incentive, other than straight teeth and a normal bite? We were supposed to start going dancing and trading cds and, and…and…
At least all the awful surgery is over. They won’t have to do anything too dramatic to me anymore, so I won’t be too emotionally destitute without Gael’s supportive presence (also hotness).
So that’s life, eh? I’m toothless and foodless and stuck in a Somerville flat until the swelling goes down. Aint that always how it is…