Minding The Gap
For as long as I can remember I've had a gap.
Me, aged 3
I never really thought too much of it since several people in my family had them—one of my favorite aunts, various cousins, friends (pre- and sometimes post-braces). It wasn't until my adolescent years that it occurred to me that teeth were supposed to be these perfect things, and I suspected that I would have to get braces but that was all squashed by my mama. As it turns out her gap envy was too great to entertain any consults with orthodontists. Plus, my dentist said my teeth were fine and healthy as they were. So I took to likening myself to the Elton Johns and Lauren Huttons of the world. We had charm. We were pre-hashtag blessed. We were unique.
In the years since I've lost count of the number of times people have complimented my smile and cautioned me against changing it. From cab drivers to strangers abroad to the loveliest attending resident at UPENN's Dental School, people have felt free to offer unsolicited love this space between, and I've learned to love it all up. So much so that I'd never imagined my face without it until a couple of years ago with my dear, sweet general dentist sat me down with my x-rays for the come-to-Jesus about my suddenly problematic teeth.
Let this be a wee reminder that you know yourself and your body better than anyone, and sometimes that's more than enough to challenge your health care provider to meet you halfway.
Cavities aside, as it turned out my Peter Pan prediction was kind of on target because I discovered I was still walking around Cheshiring with a baby tooth firmly in tact. Was it fully bombed with a massive cavity? Yes, but it was never loose and hadn't caused me a lick of pain so how was I supposed to know? Well, it was cited as the culprit behind why the gap had remained into adulthood, and suddenly it had to go to make room for the giant, gleaming, lazy ass, perfectly healthy tooth that was just hanging out in my gums.
Oh they had all sorts of ways to finance their second homes, I mean, finagle that sucker down. Surgical cuts, incisions, archeological expeditions, anchoring it to a $25k tab. Each one more horrific-sounding than the last, all with the guarantee that eventually I'd have the perfect, healthiest smile. Please note: It took them quite a few months before anyone ever actually asked me if I liked my smile as it was, and by then I wound up astounding quite a few folks when I admitted that not only was I not keen to lose my diastema, but that I didn't even think it would be possible for them to close it. Measuring apparatuses were involved.
Insert slightly smarmy, know-it-all-y cacophony of dental speak being hurled in my general direction here. The multi-syllabic mansplaining, pointing and probing that I endured only somehow made me more unmoved, but also slightly scared because I suddenly couldn't imagine myself without my gap. They almost got me too, until veneers were mentioned and I laughed so hard I nearly choked on the suction stick. I suddenly envisioned myself trying to talk around extraordinarily wide, long and large teeth and I just couldn't bear it. 'Twas too much.
The theory was that the gap was taking up all the space we'd need to yield to my adult tooth so it could descend itself into my smile without wreaking heaps of nerve and root damage. I argued that once the baby tooth was out of the way only a few millimeters more would be needed to make enough room and that I'd still be able to keep my gap. #Womansplaining FTW!
In the meantime, my goodness has my mouth undergone some serious construction. It all started in medieval times. No, not the fun, but dusty eatery, but with this crazy contraption that was anchored by 4 screws that were screwed into the tops of my mouth—about 1 in 3 places on my entire body that can be categorized as bony AF. For about 3 months, every morning and night I had to insert a key into this so-called expander and crank it. Its goal? To stretch the cartilage and crack the bone on my palate to get ol' lazy-ass tooth to begin its royal procession. You can check it out below, and yes, I know it's gross because a) it's the inside of my mouth and b) there's food stuck in there but y'all knew good and damn well I wasn't fidna go hungry.
But you can also see where my gap was when we started, how Mack-truck-coming-through wide the expander finally took it, the scaffolding they put over li'l baby tooth's grave, to the slow, but steady arrival of King Kasoof, my ride-not-die tooth, chief chomper, my anchor for ripping open packages with my teeth. Modern day dentistry and orthodontia really is a marvel, and by marvel I mean I kind of need someone to insure my mouth the way Lloyd's of London secured Tina Turner's gams.
The last sunset photo is basically where le gap is at this time—a bit wider than when I started, but still totally me, minus a few more tiny alignment tweaks to come. I'm currently in rubber band land, which, let me just say ... this whole braces, wires, rubber band situation is a real treat when you're 37. It's more tedious than having a Tamagotchi pet, but having healthy teeth (and gums!) can't be taken for granted and my gap's still in tact and the army of us proud, toothy grinners has only grown.
