Extreme Home Makeover: Mouth Edition

Here is to new teeth!

Last year, my dental implant journey began. Because clearly my body looked at its existing workload and said, “This seems manageable. Let’s add scaffolding.”

At the time, I was already running several long-term internal renovation projects. Long Covid. Iron deficiency. Hashimoto’s. And, for spice, a casual brush with breast cancer. Normal stuff. Light admin.

Then my dog headbutted me. Hard.

Right in the mouth. Snapped my already-crowned front teeth like cheap IKEA shelves. Just crack, and suddenly I’m starring in my own low-budget medical sequel.

Insurance, bless its cold bureaucratic heart, offered dentures. Dentures!

As if I’m a pirate retiring to the high seas. Hard no! So instead, I decided to invest in gum real estate and went all-in on dental implants.

A bold move.

A fiscally irresponsible one. But I like my face.

Step one: remove the remaining tooth roots.

Step two: welcome to Plastic Teeth Era™.

Enter the temporary aligner. Imagine a night guard.

Now imagine it also contains five ceramic fake front teeth so you don’t look like a hillbilly meth enthusiast who lost a bar fight behind a petrol station.

Very thoughtful design.

Downside: I can no longer speak like a human.

I inhale air, whistle, spit, and occasionally sound like I’m buffering.

I’ve developed a full-time lisp. I sound like Sean Connery doing slam poetry.

Even the dogs ignore me now. Fair. I wouldn’t listen to me either.

Eating? A delight. Chewing anything remotely solid produces the sound of a squeaky Motel 6 mattress being violently negotiated.

Meat, vegetables, dignity, all off the menu. The aligner does not approve of ambition.

Then came the gum situation.

Apparently my jawbone has the structural integrity of sticky rice.

So they transplanted fake bone into my face. Fake! Bone!

Science is wild.

Now I get to wait six months for it to heal before they drill anchors into my skull.

Just a casual half-year pause while my mouth reconsiders its life choices.

Meanwhile, my bottom teeth, who have never harmed anyone, were suddenly declared a threat.

My bite is “too tight.” Yes. That was said out loud. I now live with the knowledge that I have a dangerously tight bite. Hide your valuables.

Solution? They pulled a perfectly healthy bottom front tooth. Yanked it. No trial. No warning. Then slapped braces on the rest.

So now I have plastic on top, metal on the bottom, and eating has become an extreme sport.

I’ve already broken three retainers with my aggressive jaw energy. Is there a medal for that? A plaque? A small parade?

At this pace, I expect to finish treatment sometime around my move into an old folks home. Probably Shady Pines. I’ll be easy to spot.

I’ll be the one with brand-new teeth and brand-new boobs, asking for a cabana boy to bring me my bedpan.