Inbraceration: The Saga Continues

Clip art courtesy of CartoonWorks.com.

Inbraceration (noun): 1. To imprison the teeth with ouch-inspiring braces. 2. The period of time during which stinky old braces must be worn. Example: "Thank goodness the first seven months are over, but I must still wear these dangblasted things for nine more months."

It has been seven months since my first trip to the Chair of Doom, and the sadistic bastard cheerful orthodontist in charge of my teeth tells me I have nine months left. He says this as if it were as easy as settling in for a mani/pedi at the Lotus Flower spa.

Let me tell you something, buttercup. Any mother knows the truth. Nine months can take forever to pass when you’re waiting to deliver something. In this case, the delivery is rotated and adjusted teeth. To say I’m eager for the blessed event doesn’t even come close to reality.

Consider:  When the wires and bands are changed, the teeth are forced to shift without regard for the fact that they have rooted with contentment in their original position for decades. They don’t want to move. They’re happy. . .comfy, even.  Movement? Not without resistance, baby. 

It takes effort to combat that resistance. Yesterday I spent ninety minutes having my teeth pushed, pulled, and ground; a ceramic bracket was removed and re-positioned. Do you know how brackets are removed, buttercup? They are gripped with a wrench-like tool and ripped from the surface of the tooth! (For the love of God, can’t someone invent a solvent for orthodontic glue?) 

Then there’s the visual effects. My two front teeth are so out of sync after my “adjustment” yesterday that my daughter is calling me Billy-Bob. (Everyone’s a freaking comedian around here.) My orthodontist is a genius (as was his mentor, the Marquis de Sade) so I know from experience this orthodontic adjustment wacky-tooth syndrome will right itself superbly over the next eight weeks, and I’ll be that much closer to “delivery.” In the meantime, however, I've got a tag that says "Redneck Woman."

Now that the whining is out of my system, I can embrace my usual optimistic outlook. And there is always an upside, right? For instance, as sore as my mouth is I must consume food that needn’t be chewed.  Say it with me:  chocolate, ice cream, frozen yogurt, wine, chocolate, smoothies, chocolate, Popsicles, toffee latte, wine and chocolate, to name just a few. And actually, my teeth are really aching right now, so probably a square of Hershey’s chocolate and a nice glass of wine will, you know, ease the pain.

Hey, don’t judge me. Cravings are normal for someone working on a nine month delivery.

See you next for Book Blurb Friday!

Lisa

Inbraceration: Scared Straight

Clip art courtesy of CartoonWorks.com.

Inbraceration (noun): 1. To imprison the teeth with ouch-inspiring braces. 2. The period of time during which stinky old braces must be worn. Example: "I must wear these dangblasted things for a year-and-a-half."


Yesterday I visited the orthodontist for the first time since the onset of my dreaded inbraceration (the word I coined to describe my oral imprisonment). My sentence is eighteen months, after which my teeth will have been scared straight. I use the term "scared" because I know now that having my orthodontia adjusted hurts like a **%#@&%**, and I will henceforth be terrified of visits to The Chair.

When the old wire came out I thought, "Ha. This isn't so bad." Then the doc snapped in the new wire (read: wire the size of a ski lift cable) and I bolted upright in The Chair and howled like a snake-bit coyote, certain my teeth were being extracted from my head with a rusty crowbar. I frightened the staff and cleared the waiting room.

Inbraceration is daunting, especially for an old bagger like myself. Consider, if you will, that it has been years (okay, decades) since I could claim steel anything. I finally have steel something, and it isn't abs or buns. It is a brutal wire strung through ceramic brackets glued to my teeth, scaring them straight every minute of every day, a relentless sentence of constant inbraceration.

Okay, so maybe I'm being a little melodramatic. Maybe. But when my eighteen months is over I will celebrate my freed teeth with every fiber of my being. I will stand tall, knowing that I paid the price and did my time.

Inbraceration.  It ain't for sissies.

Til next time -
Lisa

Old Bagger Brace Face OR Proof that God has a sense of humor...

Clip art courtesy of CartoonWorks by Ron Wheeler, master cartoonist.  This man does amazing work. Take a minute to check out his site.  Just looking around is fun!

Brace Face. Train Tracks. Metal Mouth. Tinsel Teeth. Magnet Mouth. Cheese Grater. Zipper Lips. Tin Grin.  And my personal favorite: Jaws.

I am loathe to report that due to teeth-shifting events beyond my control I have been forced to join the ranks of the metal-mouthed. At 50. That's right, buttercup. This old bagger has a mouthful of metal.  Well, okay, not all metal. I opted for the clear plastic brackets; but the wire attaches to the brackets and it is---say it with me---metal.

You know, I delivered three kids without the benefit of anesthesia. That's right, au naturale from start to finish. So comparatively speaking, the soreness and discomfort associated with braces is no big deal.  (Trust me on this one. Labor and delivery is way worse.) How does it feel? Like I'm wearing an extra set of choppers or Billy-Bob teeth, that's how. My self-esteem is curled into a fetal position at the back corner of my closet for the next 18 months. Even so, I can live with that.  What is driving me the most crazy is that everything, and I mean everything, gets stuck in these darn things.

The day the orthodontist wielded his torture tools on me, we went out to dinner.  I ordered soup and salad. How bad could that be, right? Between the shredded chicken in the soup and the greenery from the salad, the inside of my mouth looked like a rain forest. Throw in a sloth and a red howler monkey and it would have been a done deal. I learned fast that a meal means "zipped lips until after brushing." My family has figured that out, too. When they want me to shut up they feed me something.

I know this won't last forever. In 18 months the braces will come off and my teeth will be happy campers again. But make no mistake, buttercup. It will be a long 18 months, during which time my family and friends will tease me mercilessly, strangers will stare and pity me, and the toothbrush will be my best friend.

And if I find any sloths and red howler monkeys, you will be the first to know.

Off to brush--
Lisa