Two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I was put under for surgery.
It all started a few years back when I visited the orthodontist to address my slight crossbite and minor crowding. I thought it would be easy. I could snap in some Invisalign trays and be on my merry way.
Unfortunately, upon closer professional inspection, my orthodontist informed me that he could fix my mouth, but would have to perform surgery. *sunk*
Did I mention the visit was two weeks before my wedding? No way was surgery happening now.
What did happen was that life got in the way, as well as home renovations, and baby creation. 2.5 years later and life finally opened up a “convenient” window of opportunity to undergo surgery, because let’s face it, is there ever a convenient time to have your jaw mutilated?
Long story short, I had to undergo SARPE surgery (surgically assisted rapid palatal expansion). Because I’m an adult (boo) and my bones are solidified and no longer growing (boo) and I have to have my gums peeled back and my upper jaw severed in multiple places (multiple boos). Next, they affix a rapid palatal expander thing-a-ma-bob torture device to my teeth for several months. Every night my loving husband has the extreme pleasure of inserting a key and turning the contraption so it widens my upper jaw. And yes, there have been plenty of jokes and innuendos involving keys, holes, and difficulties between the two.
Insert this for instantaneous coolness and popularity.
I was pretty excited about the whole process and finally having it done. Smiling should feel easy and natural and not something I should be self-conscious about, so at the age of 31, it was about damn time. The worst part about it all, other than the cost, was the recovery. Like I said, I’ve never been put under before and had no idea what to expect.
Notice lack of teeth in photo?
Two days after surgery.
My face had swollen to unknown proportions. Eating consisted of liquid items and Percocet. For the first 48 hours I regretted my decision and wondered how I could let my vanity get the best of me.
But here I sit, a little over a week later. My face is back to normal, my food intake is almost back to normal, and my speech pattern is nowhere near normal. Yet, I’m once again excited about the process. I can’t wait to grin like a mother effing chesire cat when this is all done and over with. After 31 years, what’s a few more months?