Chapter 1: The Dental Dilemma

It wasn't until I moved to the United States that I realized I embodied a national stereotype. My mouth, resembling a neglected graveyard, became a source of embarrassment at social gatherings. Smiling became a rarity, and I withdrew from social interactions.

While my teeth served their purpose for drinking, they were far from ideal for everyday activities like eating or even biting through duct tape in dire situations. What is it about British teeth that makes them the butt of jokes across the Atlantic?

My father was Catholic, and my mother was Protestant; neither had a complete set of teeth. In fact, the dating scene of the 1940s seemed to rely heavily on height and chewing capability.

I’m not suggesting that traits can be passed down through generations in the way Lamarck proposed, but there’s a certain neglect that trickles down when parents don't prioritize dental hygiene. With six children to care for and a limited budget, my mother was often too busy to remind me to brush my teeth. My father, frequently intoxicated, couldn’t have cared less about dental care.

My mother lost all her teeth by the age of nineteen and had to wait six months for replacements. This was just before World War II when dental aesthetics were hardly a priority, but it must have been socially difficult for her.

As for my father, his teeth were likely removed long before I could inquire about them; after all, he was born before the Wright brothers took flight and spent most of his life under the influence of alcohol.

My brother's teeth tell a different story altogether. They seem to be arranged in a chaotic manner, resembling some ancient script. He never sought dental correction, leaving me to ponder why that was the case. I, on the other hand, sought out a skilled dentist near Philadelphia who would finally help me.

Before finding her, my dental experiences were filled with agony. I once had a dentist who had a reckless approach to his work—he even amputated his thumb with a chainsaw! In a moment of sheer horror, he extracted one of my teeth without any anesthetic, and I can still recall the piercing screams that echoed through the waiting room.

On another occasion, a canine tooth extraction led to an oroantral fistula, creating an unnatural connection between my mouth and nose. It was a nightmarish experience, as I could no longer enjoy simple pleasures like blowing up balloons without my mouth bubbling over.

The oroantral fistula was eventually addressed by a German dentist who approached me with a bone saw and informed me, “I will have to remove some bone from your head.” Under the influence of sedatives, I agreed, not fully grasping the gravity of the situation.

As a child, my two front teeth were so large they could have been used as billboards, but they eventually fell into disrepair, filled with cavities. They were replaced with implants, and soon after, the adjacent smaller teeth underwent the same transformation.

After relocating to the Greek island of Corfu, I faced yet another challenge when the implants fell out. In a despe