Dental parole

16 May 2006

I’ve been signed off from my orthodontist. My teeth are now officially splendid. Almost American. Only not quite so white. And they don’t drive a Hummer.

I can now gradually cut down to wearing my brace every other night, then two nights per week, then finally just one night a week until the end of time. I just need to find a dentist to visit twice a year, because I haven’t been to one in very many years and things need polishing and scraping. A bit of capping on my front teeth also needs repairing as it has been chipped in the process of all the wire and cement that were flung around in the last couple of years.

The capping was added many moons ago after I had a disagreement with a seesaw. My friend and I were amusing ourselves in a playground while our mothers played netball. We went to the seesaw and as Debbie went down on her end, I went up … and over the handlebar, smashing my teeth on the metal bar.

I had broken two big semi-circular bits off my top front teeth (which were enormous, so the seesaw kind of did me a favour). On returning home after the netball match, I chose to break the news to my father by grinning wildly and less-toothily than normal at him. Kids are great. My dentist duly filed down the fang-like edges and carefully added a little capping.

Anyway, you guys should come and hang out with my medically-minded peeps. They’re somehow good for the soul. My neurosurgeon allows me to take cocaine, my GP threatens to kick me for not liking my legs and my orthodontist says I’m pretty and that my lips are so delightful it looks like I’ve had collagen implants.