Some Advice: Don't Need Major Jaw Surgery - Defector

Fifty-one days ago, I had a very long and very complicated jaw surgery.

After I got my diagnosis I learned that ICR is most common in teen girls and the only way to fix it is with surgery, but I’d have to wait until all the damage was done, until whatever little demon was causing trouble in there had worn itself out.

I couldn’t close my lips.

I couldn’t breathe out of my nose very well!

I couldn’t bite into a sandwich or a slice of pizza.

I looked like a little lizard. .

My specific problem meant I would need a total joint replacement and upper jaw surgery, both done at the same time: Two titanium joints on both sides that would bring my lower jaw forward an entire inch into its previous and proper position, and a LeFort osteotomy, in which the doctors saw (I don’t actually know if “saw” is the correct verb here and I don’t truly want to know) my upper jaw into three pieces, and then fit the pieces back together in a new position.

That nerve does not like to be disturbed, so it rebels and goes on strike and there’s usually temporary loss of facial movement and feeling after surgery.

The surgeons don’t have the technology to show you a mockup of what your face will look like post-surgery, and I was really afraid I might hate my face or have a hard time adapting to my new look.

Most people I’d seen who got a similar surgery ended up looking way hotter, but I’d also seen a Youtuber crying about how she thought her nose was bigger post-surgery.

I’d never had surgery before and with MH looming over my head, I decided to put this off because my jaw problem was not life-threatening.

It was inconvenient and frustrating and I didn’t always like how my face looked, but the average person wouldn’t know anything was wrong with me if I didn’t tell them. .

It was expensive as hell and my dentist told me that if I didn’t get surgery, I’d soon burn out all four of my molars that were doing all my chewing.

This time I was sure I wanted to do it, until I met his boss, the head of the oral surgery department, who asked me what my main motivation for surgery was.

I’d been learning about my condition for years at this point and had put surgery off for so long because I knew how bad it was going to be. .

“Well, I also want to breathe better, and be able to chew things normally, and not have a lisp and be able to shut my mouth again!” .

Once when I was told I’d need braces for a year in advance (that was incorrect), another time when I was told I wouldn’t be able to have long conversations (aka interviews!) for five weeks (mostly untrue).

A week before surgery, I got my braces on.

I taught my dance classes that night, my last dance night before my long surgery break, and as I said goodbye to all my dancers I found myself actually wondering, what if this is the last time I see them.

I’d made all my plans for medical leave from work, my mom was coming to take care of me for two weeks, and all my Amazon packages of syringes and protein powder and peanut butter and bone broths and ice packs and a pill crusher had arrived (thank you to the TikTok-ers for properly preparing me).

I couldn’t breathe or move my limbs, but I was very awake.

I panicked, trying to figure out why I couldn’t breathe on my own but also somehow wasn’t dying or dead.

I tried to breathe again.

In the recovery room, a nurse strapped ice packs on my face.

While I waited for my mom to come back to the recovery room, I took inventory of my face.

I requested paper and a pen from my nurse because I couldn’t talk well enough for anyone to really understand me.

He asked me to try drinking water, but I couldn’t figure out how to swallow it, so I started crying again. .

I felt like a little gerbil drinking water from that thing gerbils drink from, but I succeeded in my mission and got dismissed at 2 p.m.

I lost 10 pounds, I hardly slept because I still couldn’t figure out how to breathe, and every time I stood up my heart pounded like crazy.

Every time I went to the bathroom I shut off the light so I wouldn’t have to see my reflection; I was so swollen I looked like a cross between a grumpy toad and Vito Corleone.

I couldn’t move my lips at all, so my mom only understood 40 percent of what I said!

The first time I showered was horrific; I combed through my matted hair and screamed when I tugged on a giant tangled chunk and it came off in my hand.

I felt like I had been in a car accident because my entire body hurt.

My face was so numb I couldn’t even do my own nasal spray, because I had no idea where the hell my nostrils were.

This time both my mom and I cry-laughed?

Every time I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at my phone to see that only 45 minutes had passed since I was last awake, I whimpered.

(I couldn’t really cry because my face could not move.) Because I couldn’t sleep, the days felt impossibly long.

I felt like a toddler because I had to nap every day at 3 p.m.

I even looked like a toddler, thanks to my cherubic swollen face and my braces.

About four weeks after surgery I got into an Uber and the first thing the driver said was: “How was school today?” .

One day during those first couple weeks, I was syringing a thick soup when the catheter tip came unattached and the soup exploded out of the end of the syringe, coating my glasses and my whole face in ginger turmeric chicken soup.

I started laughing, but then the laughing hurt my face, which felt like it was concrete cracking.

How long was I going to be like this?.

I started crossing off the days to stay sane, marking the various checkpoints along the way but also keeping track of how long I can go without having a meltdown.

A week after surgery, I could syringe thicker shakes with ice cream and peanut butter and watery mashed potatoes.

We saw the musical Six, because it has a run time of only 80 minutes with no intermission, meaning I could make it through without needing to eat anything. .

My surgeon said the first two weeks would be the worst, and he was right.

My congestion cleared up and I could breathe through my nose so well it was painful.

Is this what it feels like to breathe.

After two weeks, I could at least drink out of a cup, which meant I was done with the damn syringes.

I still couldn’t figure out how to close my mouth by using my actual jaw muscles (I had to use my hand to push my chin back into my neck to force my lower jaw into place) but I could at least go on walks with my smoothies and avoid the weird stares that came when I sat on a park bench and drank out of a big syringe.

My surgeon said I could start trying to use a spoon but I felt like I was nowhere near opening wide enough for that.

Surely I’d be able to open wide enough in four days’ time.

At my third appointment, about three and a half weeks out, my surgeon said I could move to a semi-solid diet, like soft bread, potatoes, oatmeal, small pasta, if I was able to open wide enough for it.

You looked like you were ready to go to bed last time.”.

I get the splint removed in five days (eight weeks post-surgery) and as far as I’m concerned that is when my life will begin again. 

It was the most exciting thing to happen to me in weeks

I took five weeks of medical leave and needed every minute of it, but I’m not used to being so unproductive

It’s been hard to get back into my work, and hard to focus on anything for long enough to make progress on it

But I felt like if I could finish this jaw blog, I could probably remember how to do my job. 

The hardest part about this long recovery period is that all of my friends have had the audacity to continue living their lives and traveling and having a good time

I looked at my profile in the mirror last week and I have a chin, which is very cool

I was tired all day long and feeling really stuck