Last night was yet another in a seemingly endless parade of insults related to my transformation (I’m starting to call this “Project Butterfly” due to the dramatic improvement I have been tacitly promised as I viewed the “After” pictures displayed in my surgeon’s office, but in the meantime, I am one UGLY caterpillar) – we are talking about the sleep study.
It is estimated that at least one-third of American’s suffer from a sleeping disorder, so determining mine should be a slam-dunk. After all, Dr. Posnick (the surgeon) says that people with my skeletal deformity usually also suffer from sleep apnea. Moreover, the cure for sleep apnea is the very surgery for which we are preparing a case to the insurance company. I am sitting on the fifth floor of Georgetown University Hospital waiting for my turn with the sleep technicians to learn whether I have indeed hit the Sleep Apnea Jackpot. Keep in mind that this diagnosis is indeed a desired outcome of this study. Sleep apnea is considered life-threatening, so no self-respecting insurance company (an oxymoron? I’ll explore that topic later) can refuse to cover treatment. Keep in mind that the term “covering treatment” doesn’t mean that they will pay the surgeon’s estimated $25,000 fee; the best I can hope for is full coverage of the $100,000 hospital bill.
My name is called; I emerge from my reverie and am placed in the ample, thumb-ringed hands of Sharon, the sleep technician. It is her job to wire my body for electrodes and devote her night to watching me sleep, capturing my every somnolent move and creating a computer printout that she estimates will be 800 pages long. YIKES! I am led to a room that has all the warmth and ambience of a parking garage. The double bed in the center of the room is decorated with a quilted spread boasting shades of mauve and dusty blue that haven’t been seen since big hair and shoulder pads the size of spare tires were popular. And the bed doesn’t squeak, as you might imagine – it “crunches.” I figure the mattress is stuffed with potato chips.
Sharon moves quickly, attaching electrodes to my ankles, my back, my chest, my face, my scalp. The monitors on my scalp are secured with a wax-like substance that I am certain I will not enjoy removing the next day. She tapes a device to my forefinger that will measure my blood oxygen level by using a red light that passes through my finger. Heart rate monitors are attached around my chest and abdomen. As a final touch, she inserts a tube in my nostrils to measure my exhalations. Just as I am beginning to feel like the Bionic Woman, Sharon brings out the hair nets. These have a caricature effect, and I now resemble a charwoman from a Dickensian novel. All the while, my Eye-talian gentleman caller (henceforth referred to as “IGC”) is snapping photos with a look of fiendish delight. I hear him murmur how “wonderful” these photos are, how he can’t wait to share these with friends and family, and I promise myself I will sew shut the fly on his trousers sometime.
All wired and aglow, it is time for bed. Kiss the IGC goodnight and settle in between the polyester covers. A few “crunchy” moves this way and that, and I am in the best position I can muster. Let the sleep study begin!
Sharon has gone to the Sleep Study Command Center so she can observe me from a safe distance (something the IGC might want to emulate from time to time as circumstances warrant). Her disembodied voice booms down upon me from above. She needs to calibrate her cameras, so she asks me to gaze upon various objects in the room so she can adjust her equipment. I comply. What are my choices? I will even need her assistance to take me and all these wires, monitors and probes to the bathroom tonight, a thought that fills me with dread, so acquiescence seems like my best strategy.
Finally, I fall asleep – remember the purpose of this adventure? – in a semi-sitting position, since it’s hard to find a comfortable place to lie down. I awaken my usual five to six times overnight (luckily never requiring an assisted-visit to the bathroom), “crunch” for about five minutes this way and that, watch some television and then drift back to sleep, awakening for good at 6:00. Sharon and I unhook myself, I get dressed, I complete another survey, I again ponder wax removal, and I go looking for IGC who has returned to fetch me with the promise of breakfast. The survey asks how I feel this morning after a nightful of crunching and watching Celebrity Poker. I laugh out loud. Before I leave, Sharon confides in me that whatever diagnosis I was looking for was confirmed last night. Oh boy, I say to myself. Surgery, here we come!
Guilty Pleasures
Here are some of my Fave Raves from my refrigerator, proving that man does not live on a bland diet of tomato soup alone:
Trader Joe's Peanut Satay Sauce -- You may not be able to eat the chicken skewers yet, but the sauce is smooth enough to go down easily, and the wonderful taste scratches your Far East itch for sure!
Hummus -- Smooth, full of protein and flavor, and almost no one can screw up hummus.
Emmi brand yogurt -- A wonderful Swiss organic brand that features a splendid array of flavors (the grapefruit flavor is a delightful palate cleanser) that has the added benefit of containing no high fructose corn syrup.
Betty Crocker canned frosting -- Don't tell ANYBODY! So many flavors, and you can eat it with a spoon!
Trader Joe's Peanut Satay Sauce -- You may not be able to eat the chicken skewers yet, but the sauce is smooth enough to go down easily, and the wonderful taste scratches your Far East itch for sure!
Hummus -- Smooth, full of protein and flavor, and almost no one can screw up hummus.
Emmi brand yogurt -- A wonderful Swiss organic brand that features a splendid array of flavors (the grapefruit flavor is a delightful palate cleanser) that has the added benefit of containing no high fructose corn syrup.
Betty Crocker canned frosting -- Don't tell ANYBODY! So many flavors, and you can eat it with a spoon!
Having Second Thoughts
Somewhere between "This Surgery Will Make a World of Difference to You" and the "You Look Marvelous, Dahling" of the finished product comes a lot of fine print. I was trying to absorb data at warp speed as I caromed between medical professionals telling me about my gums, my jaw joints, my sleep habits, my ability to swallow, and on and on.
In addition, I was caught up in an incredible flurry of activity: the preurgical tests, the insurance company tap dance, the significant financing you need to put into place (that place being the hands of your surgeon) – all of this in addition to arranging your personal and work schedule to accommodate your five weeks of looking like you are auditioning for the remake of Silence of the Lambs while possessing the melodious communications skills of the monster in Mel Brooks' movie, Young Frankenstein.
While swirling through this maelstrom, I hollered “ENOUGH” and took a step back, with the help of IGC. We wanted to make sure that we were doing this for all the right reasons and not because we were on a juggernaut whose inevitable outcome was surgery. We turned to a person we deemed to be an honest broker, in this case, it was my restorative dentist, Dr. Gene Gadaire, who had work to do on my teeth regardless whether I had surgery or not.
This turned out to be an incredibly helpful session. Gene described to me the repercussions down the line of NOT having the surgery. In my case, should dentures become necessary, Gene advised that he could not fit them for me, since my jaws do not meet at present. It also gave IGC a chance to play with my dental impressions and see exactly how out of alignment my face really was. By asking a few well-chosen questions and listening to Gene´s thoughtful answers, we had sufficient data to weigh the impact of the surgery – both pro and con – on our lives. We were able to make a rational decision in our own time to proceed with the surgery.
Questions to ask:
If this were your wife, what would you recommend?
On a scale of 1 to 10, how severe is this?
What alternatives exist to this surgery? Can I achieve a similar result at less cost (discomfort, disruption. expense)?
What questions have I forgotten to ask? What else should I know?
In addition, I was caught up in an incredible flurry of activity: the preurgical tests, the insurance company tap dance, the significant financing you need to put into place (that place being the hands of your surgeon) – all of this in addition to arranging your personal and work schedule to accommodate your five weeks of looking like you are auditioning for the remake of Silence of the Lambs while possessing the melodious communications skills of the monster in Mel Brooks' movie, Young Frankenstein.
While swirling through this maelstrom, I hollered “ENOUGH” and took a step back, with the help of IGC. We wanted to make sure that we were doing this for all the right reasons and not because we were on a juggernaut whose inevitable outcome was surgery. We turned to a person we deemed to be an honest broker, in this case, it was my restorative dentist, Dr. Gene Gadaire, who had work to do on my teeth regardless whether I had surgery or not.
This turned out to be an incredibly helpful session. Gene described to me the repercussions down the line of NOT having the surgery. In my case, should dentures become necessary, Gene advised that he could not fit them for me, since my jaws do not meet at present. It also gave IGC a chance to play with my dental impressions and see exactly how out of alignment my face really was. By asking a few well-chosen questions and listening to Gene´s thoughtful answers, we had sufficient data to weigh the impact of the surgery – both pro and con – on our lives. We were able to make a rational decision in our own time to proceed with the surgery.
Questions to ask:
If this were your wife, what would you recommend?
On a scale of 1 to 10, how severe is this?
What alternatives exist to this surgery? Can I achieve a similar result at less cost (discomfort, disruption. expense)?
What questions have I forgotten to ask? What else should I know?
The Essentials Checklist
3 oz. Dixie Cups -- these are great for drinking, because they can be molded flat to make it easier to drink, and your life becomes all about managing small quantities
Surgical masks -- These are great for allowing you to walk around without holding a towel to your mouth all the time; I fold a portion of an old facecloth inside for absorbency.
Old face cloths and towels -- Tie a towel behind your neck, especially when you need both hands for an activity, like keyboarding. Their absorbency beats ANY paper product, even if it does mean more laundry.
Wolfgang Puck's Chicken Stock -- When you cannot look another can of Ensure in the eye, this, in conjunction with a good food processor, will turn ANYTHING into a delicious soup-like version you can then spoon into your mouth.
Food Processor -- My daughter and I had lunch together; she enjoyed a chicken pesto pannini sandwich while I "feasted" on a dollop of hummus. When she wasn't looking, I took the other half of her sandwich, put it in the food processor with some chicken broth, and -- Voila! -- Chicken Pesto Pannini Soup. Yeah, she thought is was disgusting, but desperation reigned supreme here!
Surgical masks -- These are great for allowing you to walk around without holding a towel to your mouth all the time; I fold a portion of an old facecloth inside for absorbency.
Old face cloths and towels -- Tie a towel behind your neck, especially when you need both hands for an activity, like keyboarding. Their absorbency beats ANY paper product, even if it does mean more laundry.
Wolfgang Puck's Chicken Stock -- When you cannot look another can of Ensure in the eye, this, in conjunction with a good food processor, will turn ANYTHING into a delicious soup-like version you can then spoon into your mouth.
Food Processor -- My daughter and I had lunch together; she enjoyed a chicken pesto pannini sandwich while I "feasted" on a dollop of hummus. When she wasn't looking, I took the other half of her sandwich, put it in the food processor with some chicken broth, and -- Voila! -- Chicken Pesto Pannini Soup. Yeah, she thought is was disgusting, but desperation reigned supreme here!
Zen and the Art of Caregiving
People in the health care field tell me that 90,000 patients die needlessly in American hospitals each year. From personal experience in two of the better-run hospitals, I absolutely believe it. Let's face it, you are not in the hospital because you are in tip-top shape to begin with. Add anesthesia, musical-chair nursing, and staff shortages that impel even the best hospitals to dumb-down care to the lowest (and sometimes barely understandable) possible level, and you have a disaster waiting to happen.
Your best defense is a well-informed primary caregiver. I am so lucky and blessed to have in my corner a man who epitomizes strong advocacy for my well-being and fearless disregard for rules that do not serve the mission, that is, my healing and thriving.
Your best defense is a well-informed primary caregiver. I am so lucky and blessed to have in my corner a man who epitomizes strong advocacy for my well-being and fearless disregard for rules that do not serve the mission, that is, my healing and thriving.
Food Mechanics
I don't dine.
I don't eat.
I don't hardly remember gastronomic joy.
I feed.
Each meal is a titanic struggle of girl versus gravity. And drool.
The first week after surgery, I was using a turkey baster-sized syringe to transport nutrition, medication, and liquids. This required throwing a towel over my shoulder, settling back against an over-sized chair. struggling to find the "Sweet spot" in the side of my mouth between my braces, the splint, my teeth the jaw and my cheek. Next, I try to create a straight line between my mouth and my gullet so that transport is unencumbered. Now, I can start to squeeze the syringe slowly and become one with my meal. . . . . . Ommmmmm.
The sweet spot differs, depending on the viscosity of the liquids. I squirt against my upper teeth for water, more toward the lower teeth for cream soups.
Medication has its own set of challenges, mostly because they come in liquid form. The taste is so nasty as to defy description. I have been prescribed Tylenol 3 and an antibiotic which have been helpfully "flavored" to enhance their being taken. I just about cried every six hours when it came time for the antibiotic, because I wanted to wretch. And the drip-drip-drop syringe delivery made certain I could taste every stomach-curdling drop. And following it with a more flavorful "chaser" was a laugh. Imagine a race of two ninety-five year-olds with walkers, and you have an idea of what we're talking about in terms of speed of relief.
At the One Week Checkup, I was liberated -- somewhat. The bands between my top and lower braces at the very front of my mouth was removed. I am now able to slide a narrow spoon into my mouth and learn to eat all over again! If you ever fed a baby using the time-tested "Airplane" method, then you have an idea of what's in store for you. A small spoonful of food goes into your mouth, and ninety percent of it come right back out as your tongue tries to grab it and slide it across the roof of your mouth toward your throat. At the same time, your salivary glands have kicked into high gear and are coating everything they can find. . . your lips, your chin, the table, your scarf, your slacks. I honestly had no idea I could produce so much spit, and it is uniquely unattractive to behold.
I don't eat.
I don't hardly remember gastronomic joy.
I feed.
Each meal is a titanic struggle of girl versus gravity. And drool.
The first week after surgery, I was using a turkey baster-sized syringe to transport nutrition, medication, and liquids. This required throwing a towel over my shoulder, settling back against an over-sized chair. struggling to find the "Sweet spot" in the side of my mouth between my braces, the splint, my teeth the jaw and my cheek. Next, I try to create a straight line between my mouth and my gullet so that transport is unencumbered. Now, I can start to squeeze the syringe slowly and become one with my meal. . . . . . Ommmmmm.
The sweet spot differs, depending on the viscosity of the liquids. I squirt against my upper teeth for water, more toward the lower teeth for cream soups.
Medication has its own set of challenges, mostly because they come in liquid form. The taste is so nasty as to defy description. I have been prescribed Tylenol 3 and an antibiotic which have been helpfully "flavored" to enhance their being taken. I just about cried every six hours when it came time for the antibiotic, because I wanted to wretch. And the drip-drip-drop syringe delivery made certain I could taste every stomach-curdling drop. And following it with a more flavorful "chaser" was a laugh. Imagine a race of two ninety-five year-olds with walkers, and you have an idea of what we're talking about in terms of speed of relief.
At the One Week Checkup, I was liberated -- somewhat. The bands between my top and lower braces at the very front of my mouth was removed. I am now able to slide a narrow spoon into my mouth and learn to eat all over again! If you ever fed a baby using the time-tested "Airplane" method, then you have an idea of what's in store for you. A small spoonful of food goes into your mouth, and ninety percent of it come right back out as your tongue tries to grab it and slide it across the roof of your mouth toward your throat. At the same time, your salivary glands have kicked into high gear and are coating everything they can find. . . your lips, your chin, the table, your scarf, your slacks. I honestly had no idea I could produce so much spit, and it is uniquely unattractive to behold.
D-Day
The alarm goes off at 5:00. Georgetown University Hospital wants me there at 5:30; Jeff has suggested 6:00 is fine, the IGC says they cannot operate without me, so I can get there whenever I damn well please. I’m shooting for the 6:00 o’clock option.
I have spent the night before stroking my chin and jaw line all night, in case it is the last time I’ll have sensation there. This has made for an interesting sight. The IGC asks me why I am petting myself; when I tell him, he takes over.
I have showered, removed all the jewelry (this act has required a trip to Cartier, since IGC has given me a “Love” bracelet that is held on by screws that cannot be removed unassisted), and dressed in loose-fitting clothing. We arrive at the hospital just as they are about to call me at home to find out where I am – they helpfully call this a “Wake-up Call.” It is close to 7:00 AM, and I have a date with the anesthesiologist at 7:30.
I am now attended by the mini-United Nations, and I appear to be the only one "Born in the USA". My anesthesiologist is from Milan; his resident, a tiny woman no larger than a size zero, is from Australia. My surgical team is from the U.S. and “Moldovia”(more about that later). Size Zero puts in one IV, the Milanese puts in the other – is it because he is drop dead gorgeous that his IV doesn’t seem to hurt at all? IGC is with me throughout, alternating between highly precise knowledge of the surgical procedures, his rights as primary caregiver. My favorite line from him which I will hear many times is, “You have many patients, I only have one – HER!” This statement is usually followed by a strongly-worded request or admonishment, but it is uniformly successful.
Gown on, IV’s in, gurney waiting. I climb aboard and am wheeled down the hall. IGC kisses me goodbye, and I enter the most undistinguished operating room I have ever seen. It is not unlike going to a Jiffy Lube. Years of watching “ER” have led me to believe that the reason the cost of medical care is so high is because everyone is decorating in stainless steel. No matter; I only have five seconds to contemplate this before I go out like a light.
Waking from surgery is an otherworldly experience. My eyes are not open, but I hear a lot of activity around me. People are talking about me in the third person. Occasionally, I am asked a question, but I am aware that I cannot make a sound. My mouth is clamped tighter than the corset on my maiden aunt. I don’t recognize the voices, except for IGC who is taking charge like the Primary Caregiver he is. I feel so protected; he communicates information about me that are both comforting (“The last surgery she had, the nurse spilled ice all over her chest LIKE YOU ARE DOING NOW! She didn’t like it then, and I doubt she likes it now.”) and life-saving (“Anti-nausea meds given IV cause her to convulse; do NOT give her any without consulting my me AND the doctor.”) I hear the beeps and chirps of the machinery that grips both arms.
I have spent the night before stroking my chin and jaw line all night, in case it is the last time I’ll have sensation there. This has made for an interesting sight. The IGC asks me why I am petting myself; when I tell him, he takes over.
I have showered, removed all the jewelry (this act has required a trip to Cartier, since IGC has given me a “Love” bracelet that is held on by screws that cannot be removed unassisted), and dressed in loose-fitting clothing. We arrive at the hospital just as they are about to call me at home to find out where I am – they helpfully call this a “Wake-up Call.” It is close to 7:00 AM, and I have a date with the anesthesiologist at 7:30.
I am now attended by the mini-United Nations, and I appear to be the only one "Born in the USA". My anesthesiologist is from Milan; his resident, a tiny woman no larger than a size zero, is from Australia. My surgical team is from the U.S. and “Moldovia”(more about that later). Size Zero puts in one IV, the Milanese puts in the other – is it because he is drop dead gorgeous that his IV doesn’t seem to hurt at all? IGC is with me throughout, alternating between highly precise knowledge of the surgical procedures, his rights as primary caregiver. My favorite line from him which I will hear many times is, “You have many patients, I only have one – HER!” This statement is usually followed by a strongly-worded request or admonishment, but it is uniformly successful.
Gown on, IV’s in, gurney waiting. I climb aboard and am wheeled down the hall. IGC kisses me goodbye, and I enter the most undistinguished operating room I have ever seen. It is not unlike going to a Jiffy Lube. Years of watching “ER” have led me to believe that the reason the cost of medical care is so high is because everyone is decorating in stainless steel. No matter; I only have five seconds to contemplate this before I go out like a light.
Waking from surgery is an otherworldly experience. My eyes are not open, but I hear a lot of activity around me. People are talking about me in the third person. Occasionally, I am asked a question, but I am aware that I cannot make a sound. My mouth is clamped tighter than the corset on my maiden aunt. I don’t recognize the voices, except for IGC who is taking charge like the Primary Caregiver he is. I feel so protected; he communicates information about me that are both comforting (“The last surgery she had, the nurse spilled ice all over her chest LIKE YOU ARE DOING NOW! She didn’t like it then, and I doubt she likes it now.”) and life-saving (“Anti-nausea meds given IV cause her to convulse; do NOT give her any without consulting my me AND the doctor.”) I hear the beeps and chirps of the machinery that grips both arms.
Surgery Minus One week
I am meeting Dr. Posnick for the fifth time, the last time before surgery. We do the usual “mouthful of goo to make impressions and to see how the gag reflex is doing” routine. Also, he fits me with the splint that will sit between my upper and lower teeth. Jeff reviews the surgery items: break, widen and move forward the upper jaw; break and move forward the lower jaw; section and move forward the chin to create a pleasing profile; clean out the nasal turbinates (whatever THEY are); liposuction under the chin to insure that Dr. Posnick’s masterworks are never obscured by the possibility that I may acquire a dowager’s double chin as I enter my dotage. All of this will be held together by 44 titanium screws, and I will have three outside locations with sutures. Otherwise, all the stitches will be inside my mouth.
We discuss the recession around my bottom front teeth. The orthodontic devices, it turns out, have the propensity in adults to pull gum tissue away from the teeth. In younger patients this is not a problem. Adults, it turns out, experience accelerated gum recession, and this is acutely present the longer braces are on the teeth. When I voice my dismay at not having heard that before, I am quietly scolded with with admonition, “I am certain that somewhere along the way one of your dental professionals told you this. ZOWEE! Let me assure you that I would remember if ANY one of my seven dentists told me that. I was reminded of those drug ads on television where the first 25 seconds are spent describing the benefits of the latest wonder drug to cure your toe fungus, and the last five seconds are CRAMMED full of the side affects which include dry mouth, hair loss, diminished libido, weight gain, oh, and possibly death. DEATH?????
Undeterred at my visible chagrin, Jeff continues discussion of my gum recession. At first, the conversation goes something like “This recession is about as bad as it gets.” Not five minutes go by before Jeff says, “You may lose that tooth.” By the end of the visit, he is announcing that I will “probably” lose the affected tooth. Yep, that’s quite a side effect of having orthodonture – you may lose the teeth you are seeking to straighten.
We discuss the recession around my bottom front teeth. The orthodontic devices, it turns out, have the propensity in adults to pull gum tissue away from the teeth. In younger patients this is not a problem. Adults, it turns out, experience accelerated gum recession, and this is acutely present the longer braces are on the teeth. When I voice my dismay at not having heard that before, I am quietly scolded with with admonition, “I am certain that somewhere along the way one of your dental professionals told you this. ZOWEE! Let me assure you that I would remember if ANY one of my seven dentists told me that. I was reminded of those drug ads on television where the first 25 seconds are spent describing the benefits of the latest wonder drug to cure your toe fungus, and the last five seconds are CRAMMED full of the side affects which include dry mouth, hair loss, diminished libido, weight gain, oh, and possibly death. DEATH?????
Undeterred at my visible chagrin, Jeff continues discussion of my gum recession. At first, the conversation goes something like “This recession is about as bad as it gets.” Not five minutes go by before Jeff says, “You may lose that tooth.” By the end of the visit, he is announcing that I will “probably” lose the affected tooth. Yep, that’s quite a side effect of having orthodonture – you may lose the teeth you are seeking to straighten.
How it all Began. . .
Talking about a mid-life crisis, let me tell you girls, pass the herbal tea, hand me another cannoli, and look out, here it comes. I was a wonderful upper middle class housewife who even canned peaches. All of a sudden one night, on the 20th of July, 2006, I said to this good looking Italian sitting at a corner table “I see you are dining alone.” And he said “not any more.” And so it began.
Next thing I know, he’s ordering for me, introducing me to the owner and spending all night long spinning dreams of places in Italy he wants to take me.
What’s a mother to do? At the end of the evening, he casually walks me out the door, tells me he’s got to get up early the next morning to take care of some business in Martha’s Vineyard. Sure, I think to myself, then he looks up and he sees my British racing green Jag get pulled up by the valet. And he says rather causally, "oh you drive a Jag, too” as he points to his ever-so-illegally parked Jag at the corner
The next scene opens a week later, he’s calling me up, saying that he wants to give a tour of great Italian restaurants in Washington and wants to know if I’m available for dinner at Gallileo"s. Five minutes later, he calls me up to tell me that Gallileo"s will never do, because they are having air conditioning problems. The next thing I know we are dining in Othello’s, a true southern Italian restaurant, complete with red checked tables cloths. Sometime after a dessert of shared cannoli, he says to me clearly and without the slightest bit of criticism that my smile needed a serious consult from the best dentist in town. I say “OK, recommend one to me.” AND HE DOES. Not only does he write Gene Gadairs’ name on the back of a business card, but jots down his number. I’m impressed. I call, make an appointment and show up. Now, girls, be prepared for a tale of getting ever-so relentlessly pulled in to making the grand tour of the top end of the dental community in our fair city.
Gene looks at me and says he can fix the marginal cap on my front tooth, make it appear 100% better and get rid of the discoloration at the gum interface. He can also replace the amalgams with composite crowns over the next year or so. Then and only then he pitches me the slider. He says “However, Peggi, to correct the problem what you really need is cranial facial surgery to correct your short jaw problem.” Being the good sport that I am, I now see Michael Stiglitz who reiterates the need to correct my jaw, stares at my gums and tells me that I also need a series of deep root planings in order to get my gums back into shape. Little did I know that this cleaning procedure was going to be the hair-raising experience it has turned out to be – two cleanings later – the first of which levitated me out of my chair. The second time, I was orally sedated to the point where I spent 48 hours sobering up (letter to Stiglitz). Well, girls, I now realize ever so consciously and to be fair to Michael, I was told , and I somehow discounted, the fact that I will need cleanings every three moths for the rest of my natural life.
Are you ready for the next chapter? Enter the Orchin boys, Jeremy and Andrew. Twenty-first century high-end orthodontal answer to Don and Phil. Wow, meeting them was a trip! They are not only incredibly competent and good looking but genuinely entertaining. The Borscht Belt ain’t got nothing on these guys. Can you guess what happens next? Yes, they wire my mouth for 500 channels for Comcast Cable. I’ve got a set of braces that you won’t believe – hooks, wires, stainless steel, buffering wax – the whole Magilla. And long suffering stoic, quiet, me lonely has one question:”Is this going to negatively affect my sex life?” Dad Orchin says “Hell no.,” and compliments my good looking Italian Gentleman Caller (IGC for short) by congratulating him for not only being heroic but just downright courageous. That brief interlude gave me some pause. I’ve been to see those two magnificent men now four times, each time they increase the pressure on the thumb screw, aggressively tightening up on my wires to get all my teeth to realign.
The next installment of the Perils of Peggi: here it comes. Orchin recommends Jeffrey Posnick, world’s greatest cranial facial surgeon. Just ask him, and he’ll cite a chapter in his book to validate his opinion and share with you his 53-page Curriculum Vitae! This guy is truly impressive. He not only wrote the book, but people fly in from all over the country to see him. I’m impressed. Here it comes. . . after looking at me, taking x-rays, giving me the applicable chapter in his book to read, he says we have to break both jaws, move the top one out and forward, the lower one forward, put about forty titanium screws in my head permanently, clean out my nasal turbinates (whatever the heck THEY are) and add a few cosmetic features for good measure. Boy are the TSA guys going to love this! Not only that, but that gorgeous Italian (and he gets better looking every day) is now calling me “Jaws” not in reference to the Great White, but as an allusion to Richard Kiel in those two James Bond thrillers. Talking about incrementalism, here’s the next step: I think Abbot and Costello did it with the “Susquehanna Hat Company” skit, i.e., "Slowly I turned, carefully I crept, step by step.” Jeffrey now says in order to make sure that the insurance company readily recognizes this is a medical necessity (and it is, because I’ve always had problems swallowing, and it seems to be getting more and more difficult with age) I would have to see a speech therapist (Beth Solomon) an ENT specialist(Dr. Troost), complete a sleep study at Georgetown University Sleep Center. Do you love this road?
So, I go to see Dr. Solomon who writes an impressive supporting documentation to Posnick who doesn’t send me a copy. Then I go to Troost who tells me “the good news is that I won’t need any surgery on my nose and there is no bad news!” The next shoe to drop is that the sleep study will cost $2,000.00 USD. And – oh, by the way – I need to consult with a TMJ specialist.
Dating can certainly be expensive!
Next thing I know, he’s ordering for me, introducing me to the owner and spending all night long spinning dreams of places in Italy he wants to take me.
What’s a mother to do? At the end of the evening, he casually walks me out the door, tells me he’s got to get up early the next morning to take care of some business in Martha’s Vineyard. Sure, I think to myself, then he looks up and he sees my British racing green Jag get pulled up by the valet. And he says rather causally, "oh you drive a Jag, too” as he points to his ever-so-illegally parked Jag at the corner
The next scene opens a week later, he’s calling me up, saying that he wants to give a tour of great Italian restaurants in Washington and wants to know if I’m available for dinner at Gallileo"s. Five minutes later, he calls me up to tell me that Gallileo"s will never do, because they are having air conditioning problems. The next thing I know we are dining in Othello’s, a true southern Italian restaurant, complete with red checked tables cloths. Sometime after a dessert of shared cannoli, he says to me clearly and without the slightest bit of criticism that my smile needed a serious consult from the best dentist in town. I say “OK, recommend one to me.” AND HE DOES. Not only does he write Gene Gadairs’ name on the back of a business card, but jots down his number. I’m impressed. I call, make an appointment and show up. Now, girls, be prepared for a tale of getting ever-so relentlessly pulled in to making the grand tour of the top end of the dental community in our fair city.
Gene looks at me and says he can fix the marginal cap on my front tooth, make it appear 100% better and get rid of the discoloration at the gum interface. He can also replace the amalgams with composite crowns over the next year or so. Then and only then he pitches me the slider. He says “However, Peggi, to correct the problem what you really need is cranial facial surgery to correct your short jaw problem.” Being the good sport that I am, I now see Michael Stiglitz who reiterates the need to correct my jaw, stares at my gums and tells me that I also need a series of deep root planings in order to get my gums back into shape. Little did I know that this cleaning procedure was going to be the hair-raising experience it has turned out to be – two cleanings later – the first of which levitated me out of my chair. The second time, I was orally sedated to the point where I spent 48 hours sobering up (letter to Stiglitz). Well, girls, I now realize ever so consciously and to be fair to Michael, I was told , and I somehow discounted, the fact that I will need cleanings every three moths for the rest of my natural life.
Are you ready for the next chapter? Enter the Orchin boys, Jeremy and Andrew. Twenty-first century high-end orthodontal answer to Don and Phil. Wow, meeting them was a trip! They are not only incredibly competent and good looking but genuinely entertaining. The Borscht Belt ain’t got nothing on these guys. Can you guess what happens next? Yes, they wire my mouth for 500 channels for Comcast Cable. I’ve got a set of braces that you won’t believe – hooks, wires, stainless steel, buffering wax – the whole Magilla. And long suffering stoic, quiet, me lonely has one question:”Is this going to negatively affect my sex life?” Dad Orchin says “Hell no.,” and compliments my good looking Italian Gentleman Caller (IGC for short) by congratulating him for not only being heroic but just downright courageous. That brief interlude gave me some pause. I’ve been to see those two magnificent men now four times, each time they increase the pressure on the thumb screw, aggressively tightening up on my wires to get all my teeth to realign.
The next installment of the Perils of Peggi: here it comes. Orchin recommends Jeffrey Posnick, world’s greatest cranial facial surgeon. Just ask him, and he’ll cite a chapter in his book to validate his opinion and share with you his 53-page Curriculum Vitae! This guy is truly impressive. He not only wrote the book, but people fly in from all over the country to see him. I’m impressed. Here it comes. . . after looking at me, taking x-rays, giving me the applicable chapter in his book to read, he says we have to break both jaws, move the top one out and forward, the lower one forward, put about forty titanium screws in my head permanently, clean out my nasal turbinates (whatever the heck THEY are) and add a few cosmetic features for good measure. Boy are the TSA guys going to love this! Not only that, but that gorgeous Italian (and he gets better looking every day) is now calling me “Jaws” not in reference to the Great White, but as an allusion to Richard Kiel in those two James Bond thrillers. Talking about incrementalism, here’s the next step: I think Abbot and Costello did it with the “Susquehanna Hat Company” skit, i.e., "Slowly I turned, carefully I crept, step by step.” Jeffrey now says in order to make sure that the insurance company readily recognizes this is a medical necessity (and it is, because I’ve always had problems swallowing, and it seems to be getting more and more difficult with age) I would have to see a speech therapist (Beth Solomon) an ENT specialist(Dr. Troost), complete a sleep study at Georgetown University Sleep Center. Do you love this road?
So, I go to see Dr. Solomon who writes an impressive supporting documentation to Posnick who doesn’t send me a copy. Then I go to Troost who tells me “the good news is that I won’t need any surgery on my nose and there is no bad news!” The next shoe to drop is that the sleep study will cost $2,000.00 USD. And – oh, by the way – I need to consult with a TMJ specialist.
Dating can certainly be expensive!
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