[ot-caption title=”(AP Photo/Jorge Saenz)” url=”https://pcpawprint.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/AP091115014093.jpg”]

The day before I took the SAT, my jaw locked. I couldn’t open my mouth more than about a finger’s width and spoke through gritted teeth. After about a week of trying, I finally managed to click my bone fully back into place. I wasn’t particularly worried because I was used to things like this happening – my jaw dislocating from screaming at amusement parks, waking up sore from a night of grinding my teeth, having to take breaks while eating bagels. When I got my braces off, the orthodontist told me that my lower jaw was anatomically too small for my skull and that my bite could never fully be corrected without surgery, a prospect I wasn’t ready to hear and didn’t want to acknowledge. It wasn’t until the SAT incident, however, that I started  really thinking about finding a solution to my mandible woes.

I had a consultation about a week ago with a doctor about possibly having orthognathic surgery in order to fix my baby jaw. The gist of the surgery I am getting is this: within about three hours, I will have all four wisdom teeth pulled, and my lower jaw broken and extended with metal screws. Recovery includes a full month of a completely liquid diet and having my mouth sealed shut with layers of rubber bands. Based on measurements and estimates, the doctor scheduled me for surgery on February 5th, only about two weeks from now. Although I already had braces, today I had to get them put back on to act as anchors for my jaw after the surgery. In between each bracket is a pointed silver hook, making my mouth look like a medieval torture device. Braces, in themselves, look positively archaic, and the nice technician putting them on me actually apologized to me several times when I was in the chair for the pain I would be feeling in a few hours. As I write, the pain is catching up to me.

For the next few weeks, my task is to get used to the mounds of metal jutting out from my teeth. I opted to get metal ones with rubber bands, instead of the clear ceramic ones, so I could convince myself that it was a grill and not a tool of orthodontic sadism. Right now, they alternate pink, silver, and gold, to match a necklace I have that says my name in swirly script. I’ve been wearing bright lipstick to accentuate the bands, a sort of aggressive self acceptance I plan on practicing for the next few months. I even made myself an earring that connects by chain to the metallic surgical hooks between brackets. During a year when I have felt overwhelmingly old, having these braces is making me feel overwhelmingly young again, soliciting flashbacks to freshman year and nostalgic feelings for being a tween.

The surgery is scheduled for so soon that I don’t really have enough time to overanalyze it, which is good I assume. I am supposed to receive computer photos of what I would look like postoperatively next Monday, based on photos they took in office and sent to a special lab in California. I know I’m supposed to be happy that my jaw will stop dislocating all the time, but I honestly have never been more scared for something in my entire life. I’ve never been against plastic surgery – on the contrary, I believe that people should be able to look the way that makes them happy without judgment. The thing is, it was never something that appealed to me personally. I like to look in the mirror and see features from my family and lines from laughing or crying. It’s taken eighteen years to get used to what I see in the mirror and, at the risk of sounding vain, I like what I see. Doing this surgery, even though my brain knows it will be healthier for my mouth in the long run, feels like a betrayal of the person who was always so against changing how I looked. Getting this surgery means waking up as a new person, with a new face I neither asked for nor wanted, and having no idea about how I feel about it. Even compared with the swelling and bruising, nausea, missing of school, liquid diet, and five months with these braces, that is still what worries me the most.

In the meantime, I will accept ice cream from anyone willing to bring it to me. My favorite flavor is chocolate.