Button, Button

I left my last orthodontist appointment with a button in my mouth.  I was wary when the orthodontist and his assistant gave each other a conspiratorial look.  Turning to me, the orthodontist told me, "you have a choice.  You can either get the button today, or get the button at your next visit."  "Well, what do you think I should do?" I asked, unsure why I was being given a choice in the matter.  Was this going to be such a torture that I should delay?  "It's the next step," was all he responded.  I paused to consider and, because I had a number of upcoming work obligations that would require me to actually be in front of people, I told the ortho and his assistant that I would wait until my next appointment.  

It became clear that I had made the wrong choice.  It kind of reminded me of that scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the bridge keeper at the Bridge of Death asks "what is your favorite color."  Your answer to the question-that-would-seem-to-have-no-wrong-answer is somehow wrong nonetheless.  I really do have a desire to be a diligent metal mouth and get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible, so I revised my answer.  

Within minutes, the button had been installed.  Turns out that the "button" is more of a metal spike jutting off of the inside of my left far-back molar into the side of my tongue.  It's intended to correct my cross-bite.  In addition to causing stabbing pain, it also results in the sensation that I am constantly swallowing a small piece of metal.  One end of a small rubber band is looped around this spike, with the other end stretched to a hook on the outside of the corresponding bottom molar.  "If this works," I was told, "you might only have to wear this for a month.  But it could be as long as six months."  I was warned that my tongue would be a bit sensitive for a few days, and then I was sent on my way.     

As I have been learning, orthodontists and their assistants are helplessly euphemistic.  My tongue was more than "sensitive."  It was shredded raw.  I couldn't eat and couldn't speak clearly for days.  I thought to myself, "how am I going to endure this?"  But the amazing thing is that now, a few weeks later, I have almost completely adjusted to the situation.  It's astounding to me, but I am back to functioning almost as if the "button" isn't there.

This "button" is no major inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, and certainly is nothing in comparison to any real suffering by anyone who has a right to complain about life.  But it has me thinking about how amazingly adaptive human beings are.  We can endure so much more than we might think we could, and pop back up to the surface, resilient as ever.

As a child, I remember paging through the National Geographic magazines my parents had been saving for decades.  We kids would look in amazement at the awe-inspiring photographs from parts of the world we could only dream about.  One of the stories I remember quite vividly (perhaps because I was horrified and fascinated both) was about the practice of foot binding in China.  I couldn't fathom how those Chinese girls could bear the pain of having the arches of their feet broken and the growth of their feet stunted by binding, resulting in feet so tiny they could hardly do more than hobble carefully with little, mincing steps.

I've never endured anything even remotely close to the horror of foot binding, but my own life has taught me something about enduring what may seem, in the moment, to be unendurable.   I suspect it's a lesson I've had particular need to learn for whatever reason.  Sometimes we may be forced to endure pointless pains, but more often than not, the pain has a purpose.  What might feel like a foot binding (cramping, confining, excruciating, mutilating), may be more like my button (stabbing, nagging, but ultimately correcting).

At least, that's what I try to tell myself!