Happy Easter Tooth Fairy
While everyone else is looking forward to the Easter Bunny this weekend, I will be celebrating the Tooth Fairy.
That’s because after months of dental work, I now have a brand-new tooth. You won’t be able to spot it – which is kind of the point, right? This tooth is a perfect match to its neighbours except so tough and so carefully implanted it will likely outlast us all.
There was a nut, you see. Specifically, an almond. I tried chomping it at the front, nibbling like a squirrel with my premolars and – gasp - felt one of them give way.
The news was bad (it could not be saved) but then good (I could have a replacement implant) but bad (it would cost the earth) but good (the process would take months so I could pay it off in instalments – a bite at a time, if you will).
Our feelings about dental work are complex. Fear of pain (from childhood) and cost (an adult addition) plus a level of embarrassment, even shame, when a tooth gives up on you, like you did something wrong or did not take proper care.
In truth, I’ve tried really hard with regular visits to my fabulous hygienist, with daily use of dental picks and assiduous brushing, but age and genetics were against me – I’ve inherited the family propensity for gum disease, and brought into adulthood some pretty dire 1970s dental practices like that one where they filled all your perfectly good teeth with black amalgam “just in case”.
So, an implant. First, an extraction and a temporary plate. Later, a bone graft with stitches, then a screw placed in my jaw… How are you feeling? That’s probably enough detail, right?
People who have survived any kind of trauma can have difficulty with something as invasive as dental work, what with it being all up in your literal grill. It can be helpful to be open about that with your dentist. I also dosed myself up on Rescue Remedy beforehand, and paracetamol and anti-inflammatories in the hours after.
But managing a plate was all new to me. I didn’t have braces as a kid, and I wasn’t at all prepared for wearing eight grams of plastic and wire in my mouth for months. Those rogue bits of spinach getting caught in the apparatus, and general detritus hiding in the roof of your mouth. Politely excusing yourself from the table after meals to slip to the bathroom and give it a rinse, learning to palm the plate like a magician so you could rinse it in a public restroom without anyone noticing what you were up to.
Learning, too, that for the interim some foods were off limits – corn, steak, even apples felt like a challenge. I allowed myself to lean into my penchant for ice cream.
Lips, teeth and tongue learn to work around a plate but sometimes I slurred an “s” into a “szh” like I’d had wines. I could no longer roll an R so my Māori pronunciation suffered. Around this time I also tried a new asthma inhaler which affected my vocal cords and made me all raspy. All of which, for someone who makes a living talking, was not ideal.
But now, finally, my mouth is liberated – possibly even feeling a little naked. I am grateful to the Tooth Fairy and the dentist. Still eating ice cream but adding apples and corn to the menu. Maybe a marshmallow Easter Egg this weekend? But definitely no nuts.