3 Things I Learned from My Tooth

Back when I was 10 years old, I never smiled with my mouth open. I’ve got pictures to prove it. It’s because I had fangs. My canine cuspids came in on top of my gums and if I pursed my lips I could double as a vampire. Braces fixed that and oh, how I wish I had all my front teeth now.

That’s right. Not proud of it, but I am shy one very important front tooth—tooth number 8 to be exact. It’s been a love/hate relationship with Senor Incisor Ocho for 20 years. The story is simple. Never, EVER, sneak up behind a four-year-old and tickle him while your head is hovering over his.

In case you don’t have a good visual on this scenario yet, my son shot up like a bucking bronco after I lovingly jabbed his sides—his head rammed into my jaw, and I shot up in pain like a rocket. I fractured my front tooth. Ouch is right. Lesson learned: Do not surprise anyone even if shorter/younger than you or if in a hovering position.

While everyone has his/her own definition and threshold, if you had the chance to skip pain, you would. I had many good years with Tooth 8. Not so much the past few months. It’s never fun to wake up and immediately send your tongue to the spot to check that your incisor is still inside your mouth. In addition to my crown feeling “off,” I started to feel pain. I’m so thankful I made the call to begin the implant procedure sooner than later, even though it meant saying “goodbye tooth” and “hello gap.” If you know anything about implants (and if you do, so sorry), it’s a process.

Here are three realizations I’ve learned (am learning) to embrace during my journey.

1. Vanity has levels.

I’ve known for a long time that I am overly conscious of my appearance. Having done the crown route, I’m aware my teeth are unique in their shading and matching color is a challenge. Silly me not to realize that extracting said tooth would affect my speech for a spell. I had only thought about the visual aesthetics of the procedure. Long story to say my kids have had their turns making fun of me and my missing toof.

Now before my tooth was removed, my dentist made a flipper (think of a retainer but put a fake tooth where the soon-to-be hole is). This is done so you don’t walk around looking like you never cared about dental hygiene or took a punch. Well, my friends, tooth successfully extracted but the flipper not so much. It’s way off in color, much shorter than my other teeth, and so loose it falls out of my mouth when I talk. Modern medicine 9.0, embarrassment scale – 3.0. But don’t worry, it’s getting fixed.

For two weeks, I’ve had to make the choice to: 1) cover my mouth when I speak, 2) put in the retainer and let it fall out as I talk, 3) keep to phone calls and non-video meetings, 4) use the mask filter on Zoom, and 5) say, “screw it” and act like I don’t care that I’m missing my tooth.

I’ve done all the above depending on my mood. It’s been humbling and a good lesson on vanity.

2. Smile like no one’s watching.

I big grin smile a lot, which is a nice realization of how far I’ve come from the shy, awkward 10-year-old I was. But reread point 1. I’m missing a front tooth. Toothless in second grade—shouldn’t be any other way. Missing a few choppers when you’re north of 70—totally earned with the mileage. But sporting that “hockey player” look in your fifth decade? Not so cool.

Having a good sense of humor has been crucial through this process and I can’t contain my smile. Early on a friend told me, “I look tough” so I started saying, “You should see the other guy.” But my favorite lines are, “Just give me a witches hat and I’m ready for Halloween” and “I’m trying out my hockey player look.”

3. Face masks are friends.

God bless the face mask. For lots of reasons. The fact that I have a tooth deficit during a global pandemic where face masks are widely encouraged and acceptable is fantastic timing. It’s my go-to for public appearances. I can rock it like an accessory, and no one is the wiser (as long as I don’t speak any words with “f,” “th,” “v, etc. in them).

But vanity and pride aside, I’m so grateful to live in the U.S. where I can do something about my choppers and take medicine for pain. I often think about my mission trip to Haiti. I remember the men, women, children, and babies who waited in line overnight, having walked miles, for a chance to see nurses and doctors for help with their pain.

While I’m not thrilled with this experience, it’s been a sobering reminder that my identity is not rooted in my looks. But do I lose humbleness points if I state that it takes a certain finesse to carry out a toothless grin?