I’d say it began in seventh grade. A remarkably difficult time for us all, I know. But unlike my friends at school, I was facing severe and rapidly progressing jaw joint degeneration, amongst a landslide of other Arthritis-related difficulties.
Puberty sped up what was already present. It accelerated the active inflammation in my body, attacking and destroying my once-healthy jaw joints. My bite changed slowly, and everything became harder. Chewing, sleeping, speaking. My teeth and smile were crooked and misaligned. There was a lingering dull ache in my upper and lower jaw, developing into a sharper pain as the months carried on. I’d turn my head to the side twice a day to see my shrinking profile in the mirror. It was discouraging, and I started to feel like I didn’t even know who I was, or what I looked like. As my appearance changed, I felt pieces of myself slipping away.
My parents took me to several consultations once they realized what was happening. Arthritis in the jaw joint is common, and a lot of people struggle with temporomandibular disorders [TMD]. Unfortunately, it tends to pop up quickly and aggressively. Before long, the damage had set in and surgery was the only option left.
We met with several doctors. Some wanted to use my rib as a bone graft–obviously, we kept looking. Some told me to wait until I had finished growing–this seemed impossible. Not only was my bite affecting my ability to eat and properly sleep, but it was also destroying my self confidence. So we kept looking.
Eventually, we found a maxillofacial surgeon that we trusted. Four years of braces, palate expanders, and quadruple wisdom teeth removals later, and I was ready for surgery. We discussed the risks, and I was alerted that I would not only need a tracheostomy, but a GI feeding tube. These two additional procedures guaranteed I could breathe during the 8-hour surgery, and keep weight on post-op.
I was sixteen. I wasn’t really sure what any of it meant.
There’s no way to prepare for this type of thing.
One minute, you’re you. Except, you’re a version you don’t recognize, and frankly don’t relate to. Next thing you know, you look like someone completely different and completely new.
How do you reckon with that? Do you leave yourself behind, and create a new persona? When you wake up from the anesthesia, how do you connect your past and present versions?
The surgery was a success, and a fresh start. I had brand new titanium bolts and plates and wires, and a whole lot of facial swelling. No scars, though, as my brilliant surgeon opted for an interior approach. The first few post-op days were fuzzy; between my morphine drip and my cute PICU nurse, I was properly occupied. I avoided mirrors and drank a lot of liquids, and they removed the breathing tube. I was released after two weeks, and sent home.
Truthfully, I’ve blocked out most of the summer recovery. I can tell you that those months were brutal, and going back to high school in the fall was daunting. I didn’t know if I was as unrecognizable to others as I was to myself. I was afraid of getting made fun of. I was excited to show off my new smile. I was a delirious blend of giddy and terrified.
Even though I was swollen and bruised, I’d never felt more alive. When I checked the mirror and turned my head to the side, like I was used to doing, I finally had a side profile. My new jaw aligned with the tip of my nose, like everyone else’s.
After a year, I was officially ‘healed’. The doctors said it would take up to eighteen months to see the true result, once the swelling had gone down enough. I waited patiently to recognize myself again.
People were kind. It was 2013, and my early Instagram feed was filled with proud selfies and photos of my new friends. I was finally confident and outgoing, and became rather extroverted my senior year. I made this video (a rather uninformative, albeit a cute and energetic vlog) and tried to wrap my mind around the astronomic changes I’d gone through. I posted a lot of social media content and felt deeply, intrinsically grateful for the experience. I was proud of the transformation, and became slightly obsessed with the concept of change and evolution. I got a bit comfortable, and a bit cocky.
The thing they never told me, though, is that the joint damage could reoccur. It could mean a relapse. I always looked at the surgery as a pinnacle event of my teens–a true metamorphosis. A caterpillar to butterfly story that had a beginning, middle, and end. I was so busy basking in the relief of surviving the surgery that I didn’t realize the deterioration could be taking place again.
Over the last few years, I’ve felt like my jaw joints were silently being zapped by a very slow, very strong invisible laser beam. Minuscule changes taking place over time, slowly removing the jenga blocks until the tower toppled.
I wondered if I was going crazy. I obsessively took more mirror photos from the side, so I could measure my profile against other angles from three months earlier. I started remembering what the ‘before’ picture looked like. I stopped recognizing myself.
I met with my jaw surgeon again a year ago.
In the back of my mind, I knew that my jaw was shifting. I could feel the twinge come back right below my ear, like last time. I could feel the crunchiness of the joint, my bite sliding to the left. I knew because of my recent flares, my Arthritis was in full destruction mode. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew that I’d need another surgery soon. It had been thirteen years since the first one, and this time I’d be facing it as an adult, with war flashbacks and lessons learned.
When I was first told, I was really angry. Actually, it was a wicked combo of utter horror, shock, and disbelief. I blamed myself, my doctors, God. I denied the obvious and prayed for an alternative. And once I had reached the acceptance part of grieving, I got my braces back on.
Since then, I’ve been trying to heal my relationship with myself. My identity felt fragmented, like chapters of a book that were all ripped out and stitched together. It actually wasn’t until I began to pull old photos for this post that I discovered a deep love and appreciation for the person I was in 2008. I found myself wanting to give her a hug.
After I went through recovery, I scrubbed every photo I had posted of myself pre-op. I deleted every trace of myself from before 2011. I was deeply embarrassed of the little middle schooler who felt ashamed of things she couldn’t control.
This time, I want it to be different. I’m letting go of shame, embracing the ‘before’ as well as the ‘after’. I’m asking for forgiveness from my younger self. Sorry for deleting you.
The surgery is scheduled for this summer. Stay tuned for part two.
lilstargirl 
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