By Kelly Day–

Things get tight

It took me a week before I could eat real food again, at a decent pace so it wouldn’t get cold between bites.

Every morning I ate half a Pop-tart, then starved through 1st, 2nd, and 3rd period until lunch, which went from sandwiches, chips, plum, and cookie pre-brackets to yogurt and chips post-bracket (Pringles are very easy to eat without using your teeth; just simply mash them against the roof of your mouth with your tongue and enjoy).

After that first week, though the pain was constant that whole month, the throbbing stopped and turned into a dull ache, which I could lose track of if I buried myself in a task.  Then I’d eat.  And remember.  Dinner was always the easiest meal of the day; though people looked at you funny when you heated up ramen noodles- minus the noodles.

Though it was tough, I survived that first month, which is always the worst.  At that point you think your golden – almost like when dieters think they’ve got it made after they drop five pounds after a month.

For dieters, it’s the dreaded office party where butter cream frosting and potato chip variety packs not only bring those five pounds back home, but encourage them to invite their friends.  For those with braces, it’s the first tightening.

After about the second or third tightening, it’s really not that bad at all.  Soon you’ll almost look forward to it, for you realize that each tightening is a milestone that brings you closer to getting the hateful things off.  Plus you get to pick new colors.  Keeps things fresh.

But the first tightening will not only cause you to hate your dentist, but also your genes, because it’s their fault you’re here in the first place.  Gee, thanks Mom and Dad, I love the overbite (insert eye roll here).

Since phys. ed. was my first class of the day, I always had my appointments then.  My first time back I relaxed in the waiting room while the receptionist, René, smiled at me, until 20 minutes into the appointment.  Then Bea called me back to the end room where I sat another 15 minutes while Bea fumbled the supplies.

Finally the battery-operated chair scooted me back until I was horizontal.  She shoved a curved, pointy instrument in my mouth and forcefully removed each and every colored band.

She then got the wires out to change them, for somehow I had destroyed them.  The much anticipated question came: What color do you want this time?  Glow-in-the-dark, please.

She cut my wire down to what was viewed as an appropriate size, and then shoved it back into my mouth.  This is where something quite painful happened (more so than the rest of the operation).  The wire, being too long, landed in my gums.  Ow.
Then something more painful happened.  She didn’t understand why it hadn’t landed in the right place, took it out (momentary salvation), then shoved it back in with enough force to knock over a baby elephant (I don’t understand how this was supposed to fix the problem).

Naturally, I screamed, and cried, quite audibly.  Bea tried to figure out what was wrong, almost hyperventilating, desperately trying to calm me down.

“I’m sorry this isn’t supposed to hurt, I’m so sorry, don’t cry,” begged Bea.

I guess she didn’t understand that I was still in pain, for the wire is still about half an inch into my gums.

Let’s very quickly look at the situation through a third party’s perspective.  At this particular moment in time, there is a 12-year-old girl lying down with this bright light shining in her leaking muddy eyes.  She is screaming.  Loudly.

She keeps telling herself, “It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK..”

There is sweat on her forehead and drool running down her chin.  The scene smells of fluoride, gloves, and copper, for her mouth is filled with blood. A wire is cutting into the outer part of her cheek since the end that wasn’t poking her had yet to be attached to anything.

Next to her is a weathered youngish woman, who is frantically rummaging through her dentist drawer, while trying to calm the child down.  She looks like she wants to curl up in a fetal position and cry herself.

OK, that’s enough of that.  Back to the story.

Eventually, Bea stopped the bleeding with some gauze, trimmed the wire down to its appropriate size, attached my glow-in-the-dark bands, cleaned my face with a steaming moist towel, and calmed me down to dry, silent sobs.

It’s been over an hour.  It’s well through 2nd period Teen Leadership.  My mouth is fixed in a permanent open position, and it has a ring of red around it where it had been overly irritated.

“You’re almost done,” Bea sighed, crossing herself, “Now we just have to take pictures.”

What?

The first pictures required me pulling my mouth in opposite directions so she could get pictures of each tooth’s progress.  There were two of those.  The flash refused to come on, so it took about five tries.  Note that my mouth is being held in a constant open position.

The next two pictures involved a giant (or so it felt considering my mouth is too small; I know this because only every dentist I’ve ever had has told me so; apparently telling someone their mouth is too small is small talk in the wonderful world of dentistry) mirror being put in my mouth while the upper and bottom lips switch off being pulled down (it must be great fun being a dentist, you get to watch people make funny faces all day long).
Though the flash worked, I kept unintentionally breathing through my mouth.  To fix this problem in future appointments, I would cease breathing, and Bea would have an air blowing tool on hand to clear any accidental steam.

The two pictures required about another five shots.  Finally, the three easiest photos were shot.  One where you smile to the front (I kept my face in the same open grimace of horror position), one where you relax to the front (same position held), and one where you turn to the left for a profile and relax (position held).

If that’s too hard to visualize, just imagine bad cops taking your mug shot after they tasered you.  Not that Bea is a bad cop.  Not at all.  She’s a sweetheart – just unpracticed.

And so it was like that – glazed-over eyes, mouth hanging open zombie-style, drooling and red faced, hair all in disarray, shaking body – that I went to school during the middle of 3rd period.  Ms Skiles, Pre-Algebra.  She read my note.

“Well lucky you, just in time for lunch,” she said as she smiled down on me.

Ugh.

Kelly Elizabeth Day is a sophomore at Smithson Valley High School in Comal Independent School District.