Apparently, I’m No Longer Cooperating

Apparently, I’m No Longer Cooperating

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I had an appointment at the orthodontist last week.

Why?

Excellent question.

I have no idea.

At this point, I suspect they just saw dollar signs when they signed me up for the whole “let’s put braces on your perfectly innocent lower teeth so they’ll eventually match the expensive new implants on top” adventure.

Because apparently replacing teeth isn’t complicated enough. First, you have to renovate all the other teeth so they’re compatible with the new tenants.

It’s basically Grand Designs: Mouth Edition.

Anyway.

At my last appointment, we had agreed on The Plan.

And I cannot emphasize this enough:

WE HAD A PLAN.

In about five weeks, the braces come off.

On that same day, I go to my regular dentist, who will fix the lovely black triangles between my lower teeth that appeared during this whole orthodontic adventure.

Then I go back to the orthodontist, where they put a permanent wire behind my lower teeth to keep everything in place.

Simple.

We hadn't scheduled it yet because my regular dentist was on vacation. She also wants the implants and crowns on my upper teeth completely finished first, just in case we still need to make tiny adjustments to the lower teeth so everything lines up properly.

Reasonable.

Logical.

Agreed upon by everyone involved.

Which, naturally, meant that on Monday I received a reminder telling me I had an orthodontist appointment on Wednesday.

Huh.

I assumed they just wanted to check that everything was still where we left it.

You know.

Teeth: present.

Braces: present.

Nothing has spontaneously migrated into my nasal cavity.

Excellent.

See you in five weeks.

So Wednesday comes around, I sit in The Chair, and a woman I have never seen before appears.

She starts fiddling with the braces.

Then she starts opening the locks.

Then she reaches for the wire.

STOP.

I tell her we're not replacing any more wires.

This entire medieval scaffolding is coming out in five weeks.

Doesn't it say that in my file?

I am really, really not in the mood for this.

She sighs.

Actually sighs.

At me.

I ask if we can please just wait for the orthodontist.

Thank you.

And then she calls across the room:

“This lady does not want to cooperate anymore.”

...

I'm sorry.

What?

I sit upright.

There are moments in life when you can actually feel your remaining social skills packing a suitcase.

Because at that precise moment, a tiny part of my brain whispered:

I could punch her dumb face.

I didn't.

Obviously.

Because prison would probably interfere with my dental appointments.

Instead, I explained, with what I consider astonishing restraint:

“Lady, you clearly have no idea how cooperative I have been for the last eighteen months. And I would appreciate it if you would not talk about me as if I am not sitting right here.”

My orthodontist arrives.

The assistant immediately tells her that I am “not cooperating.”

Again.

Apparently I am now leading some kind of orthodontic resistance movement.

So I turn to my orthodontist.

“Can you please tell her?”

She smiles.

Because she knows.

She has watched the saga.

She knows I am done.

“Yes,” she says. “I know you've had it. Today we're only checking that everything is still in place.”

And then she turns to the assistant.

“Doesn't it say exactly that in the dossier?”

Silence.

Beautiful, glorious silence.

Suddenly nobody wants to discuss my cooperation anymore.

The orthodontist checks everything.

All looks good.

She'll contact my regular dentist to coordinate the final steps.

And they'll see me again after the implants are finished.

That's what I thought.

Thanks.

I'm done here.

I storm out before my remaining manners abandon ship completely and somebody gets slapped with an orthodontic brochure.

Because I have had it.

I have spent the last eighteen months having people drill, cut, pull, push, poke, scan, stitch, tighten, loosen, adjust and generally conduct major infrastructure projects inside my mouth.

I've had bone grafts.

Implants.

Braces.

Temporary teeth.

Missing teeth.

Fake teeth.

Things screwed into other things.

Things glued onto other things.

And approximately seventeen thousand appointments where someone cheerfully said:

“Just a little pressure.”

There is no such thing as “just a little pressure” in dentistry.

It's the dental equivalent of “This meeting should only take five minutes.”

It is a lie.

I don't want another procedure.

I don't want another adjustment.

I don't want another person enthusiastically approaching my face wearing gloves.

I don't want to hear the words bite down ever again.

I just want my teeth.

Preferably all of them.

In roughly the correct locations.

And then I would like everyone to leave my mouth alone.

So yes.

Maybe I “don't want to cooperate anymore.”

After eighteen months?

Correct.

Give me my teeth and release me back into society.

🍋