The Tooth be Told

by Angela Sanford

March is Dental Health Month — a timely reminder that our teeth carry quite the history. They witness it all over the years: greasy indulgences, sugary delights, rushed coffee mornings, and (I hope) a faithful relationship with toothpaste and floss.

My own teeth have certainly lived a full life.

As a child, dentists admired my milk fortified enamel. Strong. Impressive. Built to last. Fast forward a few decades, and that enamel has quietly thinned — worn down not by neglect, but by a dramatic dental journey.

At 18, I had oral surgery to correct an overbite — a full jaw surgery scheduled conveniently over Christmas break. The first surgery, I should say. (Yes, there was more than one.)

While recovering, the surgeon walked me through everything he had done. He corrected the position of my jaw. He removed my wisdom teeth — expected. And then, almost casually, he mentioned that he had also taken the opportunity to “improve” the bridge of my nose. Apparently, he felt the original set didn’t quite suit me.

And what could I do about it? Absolutely nothing.

My jaw was wired shut. I couldn’t protest, argue, or even properly gasp. I could only wait anxiously for the wires to come off so I could finally enjoy the Christmas dinner “Mom Mavis” had thoughtfully frozen for me.

The day arrived to remove the wires. I remember warning the surgeon that it would be in his best interest to sedate me — I knew myself well enough to predict I wouldn’t handle the process gracefully.

I was right.

I regained consciousness on the floor at the foot of the dental chair, my father and the surgeon hovering over me. The wires did eventually come out — though it took far longer than anyone had planned.

Then came four months of orthodontic fine-tuning. Each appointment involved carefully grinding enamel so my newly aligned jaw and teeth would cooperate. I would lie back in the chair, watching smoke rise and breathing in that unforgettable scent of dental friction.

The day before senior prom, the braces finally came off. A retainer mold was made. Freedom. Relief. Closure.

Or so I thought.

One year later, during what was supposed to be a routine final X-ray, I learned the surgery had not been correctly executed. My jaw needed to be reset. Braces reattached. Another 6 weeks spent with my jaw wired shut. Another round of enamel grinding. New retainers.

Through it all, one small hero endured.

A single baby molar.

While every other tooth in my mouth was drilled, shifted, ground, braced, or filled, that tiny baby tooth stood untouched. No braces. No grinding. No fillings. It remains the only tooth in my mouth with all its original enamel intact.

I consider it the guardian of my youthful spirit.

Late last fall, disaster struck. Half of that baby tooth chipped off. I was certain its reign was over — destined for extraction and replacement with a bridge. But a skilled and patient dentist worked magic, rebuilding it so it now stands proudly in place once again.

I have invested considerable time and money in these pearly whites: gluten-free toothpaste, daily flossing, vigilant care. At this point, dental maintenance feels less like hygiene and more like asset protection.

So this Dental Health Month, I stand tall — alongside my resilient baby molar — committed to protecting what remains and celebrating what has survived.

After all, when you’ve had your jaw reset twice and your nose redesigned without consent, keeping one original baby tooth feels like a win.

And if that little tooth can endure all that?

So can I.