When my dentist informed me that I had gingivitis—the predecessor to periodontitis, which is a fancy term for gum disease—I held reserve but felt like I had just been told my body occupied a terminal illness. To which I would reply, "How long do I have?" This, then, would be followed by a period of liberation where I could behave however I felt suited my needs because I bore gingivitis in my mouth. When I would attend a restaurant, the kind waiter would cater to the creation of an evening nothing less than exquisite.
Unlike the kids in middle school, whom I envied for their braces, gingivitis was not something cool to show off to your friends; of course, in no way am I attempting to lessen the amount of sacrifices which came from braces: losing the privilege of specific gum, the rubber bands that, from what I had gathered, were in its own right a dangerous weapon of mouth, or the practice of accustoming oneself to a life of struggle throughout the years of metal attachments to a person's teeth. But I felt my mouth's pre-disease warranted the same respect.
Nevertheless, I am known for my hypochondria, which in my terms meant that I feared any and every possible scenario where terrible outcomes would resolve in a horrible death or disease, and I have found a struggle with an unsettling feeling that I have to perform every task—gently brushing my gums, flossing, and rinsing my mouth with Listerine—must be performed in a correct manner. If I accidentally swallowed some of the aforementioned mouthwash, I would immediately check the warning label on the bottle for solace; however, this wouldn't be enough and would influence me to call someone for support. "Are you sure the swallowing of this liquid will not burn my internal organs," I would ask incessantly, "because I feel like I might possibly be in the process of dying."
I felt so betrayed by the world after leaving the dentist. I knew plenty of people who rarely flossed regularly, so why was I subjected to a scolding when there was a youth whom may suffer from a lack of teeth in the future? The phrase, "Why me?" is used constantly—and yes, I acknowledge how privileged it sounded—but it raced through my head like a comet scathing the night sky. I suppose I could have it much worse, but there is an irony in rationalizing that because kids in a third world country lack basic oral health, I should be happy my life is not as terrible; in addition, I have to argue that in no way does this make me feel any better because I have no interest in walking into places toothless at my age. It is comparable to a person reminding you that even though you cannot afford this month's rent, some people are homeless and lack any bills.
Gingivitis was not a conversation piece my friends or family wanted to discuss. It was the Debbie Downer of conversations to have your grandmother hear about your apparent lack-there-of oral health. This also was not a topic to bring up towards people who did have health problems, which ranked higher than yours. It was a masochist game to actively participate in this month's edition of Who Has It Worse?, and I believe the game is rigged because who really ever wins?
A few months' perspective has shown me a newfound appreciation for complete dental care—something I notice many people lack any real knowledge of. It amazes me how many people in my life do not actively floss or, even worse, never floss. Awareness for something this important should have more focus because I foresee many people whom I'm acquaintances with missing plenty, if not all, their teeth. Thankfully my hypochondria and mellow dramatic behavior have simmered into a nice, less neurotic process of maintaining my dental health.
