Last week, Bobby and I went to go see The Theory of Everything and it was an incredible movie. At the beginning, I was feeling a bit of guilt for dragging my lovely significant other to ANOTHER movie that he didn't particularly want to see. But by the first quarter of the movie, we were both totally sucked in. It is a movie following the lives of Stephen and Jane Hawking through Stephen's debilitating motor neuron disease similar to ALS. It was such an emotional roller coaster, but there was one scene in particular that just struck me square in the chest. It was so powerful that I had to wrap my arms around myself to keep me from sobbing. They say when you ponder upon a memory, it's as though you're reliving it. And that's exactly what happened.
It was a scene at Stephen's celebratory dinner for getting his PhD from Cambridge and while all his friends are laughing, smiling, drinking and eating, Stephen is struggling to lift his spoon to his lips less than an inch away. As the camera comes in from his angle, he focuses on everyone's normal behavior, moving with ease as he struggles. When asked if he needed help, he refused and excused himself from the table. While watching this scene that's less than 4 minutes long, I was thrown back to the winter of my Junior year of high school. I stood in my kitchen with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. The scent permeated the house, tickling my nose as I stood over them. My tongue danced around behind my banded teeth. My mouth started to water, and all I could do was swallow all the aching pain of wanting to sink my teeth into the warm, gushy goodness. I grabbed one, just to remember what it felt like to hold real food in my hand. I 'opened' my mouth and tapped it against my my splint.
Tink tink tink.
I couldn't taste it. I couldn't even feel it on my teeth. The overwhelming sense of hurt and anger I felt at not being able to have a normal face at that moment flared into hatred as I watched my family bite into the cookies. I wanted to change everything in that moment. I wished everyone could have felt my pain, just for a fleeting moment so they could understand, like Stephen Hawking wished his friends could understand.
Now, I don't tell this story to be all dark and negative about the God-awful pain I suffered from my TMJ. From physical pain of years of unanswered prayers and endless pleas to my doctor to just "cut me open. Take it out, make it stop" to the psychological pain of going to school with my mouth wired shut, all of it seems so far away from now. That experience changed who I was, built my strength and showed me that I could handle the overwhelming. I could handle the moments of pure hardship where others would have broken down. I felt like I didn't eat for 9 months. There were moments where I would rather go hungry then have to grind up my food, walk into the lunchroom late with my bowl of pasta. The same pasta I would eat every. single. day. But the most beautiful thing about it is that it's over. I made it. I made it through two surgeries, 4 sets of braces and not being able to eat to now have the face I have today. They said I wouldn't be able to speak by the age of 25 if my face continued to deteriorate. Now I'm 22 and talkin' just fine, much to many people's dismay. ;)
Today, December 9th, is the day that I finally became pain free. But it's not just any "jawversary". It's been 5 years. FIVE YEARS. To think that it's been that long and that I have been blessed with a pain free life for 5 years... it truly feels like a miracle. I woke up this morning and yawned. I brushed my teeth, put some lipstick on for the special occasion. I laughed with my honey as I danced around in my excited state. I will eat a big lunch with multiple cookies because guess what?
I am pain free.
To Dr. Mark Allan Piper and the Piper Clinic in St. Petersburg, Florida, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I started seeing Dr. Piper when I was 14 years old. He has seen me grow up through high school, suffer immense pain and go through all sorts of changes. He was dedicated to find a solution and his staff was dedicated to keep me positive in the face of overwhelming odds. And in the end, everything worked out for the best. I cannot put into words what Dr. Piper means to me. With his handlebar mustache and soft demeanor helped a frantic child get out of her personal hell.
Here's to you, "jawversary", and to many more to come.
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