And here is the third and final instalment. This is all I have planned at the moment (at least for this year!), but I'd be honoured if someone enjoyed it so much they used the concept for another character. After all, there is still at least 24 hours before Halloween...
Had I been listening, I might have found out what was going to happen to me, but I was just rooted to the spot, mind going blank, not quite totally in full control of my senses. I seemed to fluctuate between thinking Matt had set me up, to thinking the orthodontist had got confused and called my name except the name on the paper, to sheer, unbridled (if you'll pardon the pun), "OMG". I was 22. 22 year old guys did not wear whatever braces he had in mind for me. I realised a little too late that he was explaining to the crowd exactly what he was going to stuff into my mouth, and fell back into full conscience of the voice off to the side of my head just in time to hear him tell the assembled crowd that the funny thing about my winning this draw was that I really should be in compliance assured treatment already, but I'd turned it down. It was thus good fortune in more ways than one that he'd finally be able to give me the smile he thought I deserved. The smile he thought I deserved. Never mind what I thought I deserved, or even what I wanted, it was the smile he thought I deserved.
I left the stage, finally finding my fake smile. Such were the orthodontically-endowed smiles and people wanting to shake my hands and congratulate me on my success that I couldn't really do anything but. I couldn't even be angry, because I didn't know whether I had the right to be or not. I would have to speak to the orthodontist about it as soon as I could. I knew he would want to wire on Matt's headgear tonight, so maybe I could discuss it with him then. I finally reached Matt, ready to challenge him on what on earth had happened, but I knew from his very first words that he wasn't to blame. He was coming towards me by this point, and rather than laughing at me, having a joke at my expense or otherwise asking how I felt, his words were "Dude... what happened? Did you enter again?"
We found ourselves a small corner of the room and tried to work through what had happened. We recalled reading the rules on the big sheets above the desk. Matt stepped forward and picked up two forms from the same pile, I saw him do that. He handed me one. He couldn't remember whether he handed me the top or the bottom, and I wasn't really paying attention. He gave his a quick glance over and signed it, handing me the pen. I just signed it, and we both put them in the box together. It had to be the forms. Had Matt picked up the wrong one by mistake? We agreed we'd discuss it with the orthodontist when they came looking for Matt, which happened sooner than we thought. He appeared, full of exuberance and obvious pleasure that a patient like me had won his true Halloween Horror, the superdraw prize, of spending the rest of my treatment on the compliance assured program. He could essentially treat me how he liked (within ethical boundaries and needing a reason to do so, of course), and what I wanted from my treatment was now not even secondary - tertiary at best.
I tried to explain the situation, but I floundered. I couldn't find the words. Every time I tried to mention it, I just got lost in a maelstrom of words and thoughts about wearing my headgear and more full time. There would be more. There was always more when you had a compliance-assured treatment. He could fit what you needed, rather than what he thought you were prepared to wear. So when you fell into compliance-assured, he swapped things out for the necessary tools. That always meant more. More metal, more elastics, more headgear... it didn't matter, it was just more. Thankfully Matt was there, and he went through everything in the detail you'd expect from a statistician. I watched the orthodontist's face; how his smile declined, then fell, then how his brows became furrowed and he became pensive. He asked us to follow him through to his office, where he delicately explained the situation to the assistant who'd manned the tables. She agreed Matt has taken the forms from the normal pile.
Fifteen minutes later, by which time a couple of the lesser prize winners had seen their colours changed to orange and black, the assistant came back with the two forms in her hand. It was quite clear what had happened. Whether by accident or practical joke, one form was headed for the normal draw, the other for the superdraw. Matt looked at me, and in eight words showed up how I'd got myself into this mess: "Didn't you check it before you signed it?". It was the most basic of basic errors. I saw he'd taken it from the "right" pile and just signed it. I couldn't recall even looking higher than a third of the way up the page. If I had any hope of getting out of it, I had just lost it. Even Matt agreed that the rules were clear. It was a contractual amendment, and if I didn't check what I was signing before I did, then really, I didn't have a leg to stand on. What's more, I knew it. There would be no apology. There would be no embarrassing redraw. There would be no jokes about my lucky escape. I would get the treatment they advised me to start out on a year earlier.
They asked whether I wanted to start tonight, or whether I wanted to come back in a few days. I said I'd start there and then. It wasn't like I could enjoy the rest of the party now anyway. I could hardly eat cupcakes and drink fruit juice punch until the late evening with thoughts of headgear hanging over my head. I may as well put myself out of my thought-based misery and start my reality-based misery.
I got more. More metal, more elastics, more appliances, more headgear, more years with braces. If there was anything I could get more of, I got it. Most of the teenagers had gone home by the time they finished, and the older guests were just starting to tidy up. I went in with brackets, wires, a lower expander and my overnight cervical headgear. I came out looking like something out of the terminator. Fully-banded braces on my upper teeth instead of the brackets. but only because the lowers weren't quite ready yet. A Herbst appliance. I didn't need an upper expander, but that didn't stop them using an transpalatal arch on my upper jaw to keep everything 'just as it should be' with the Herbst. It had this little loop in the centre that was already annoying my tongue and I'd only been wearing it for an hour. I had one new elastic, in neon orange, of course, in a box at he front of my mouth, but with one corner to the inside of my tooth, rather than the outside. It felt really weird and very uncomfortable. And the headgear. My headgear. When they said an extra strap, I thought they meant a high-pull, like Matt's. Oh no. They meant a modified Interlandi, with a strap around my forehead and, because compliance assured didn't really allow for elastics, straps across my cheeks. I don't think I need to mention what colour the straps were, standing out against my dark hair like a mobile warning that a headgear wearer was approaching. With my glasses on I couldn't help but think how everything neatly divided my face into five sections. Forehead strap, top of my glasses, bottom of my glasses, facebow. Goodbye two and a bit year treatment, hello four years at least.
I was stunned. Matt was supportive, as were my parents, but they all made it pretty clear I was responsible for my own downfall. I just had to take as many deep breaths as I needed and get on with it. I needed a fair few, too, as our beloved orthodontist hadn't skimped on the media campaign. I had to grin and bear it, quite literally. They didn't even keep my embarrassment hidden, as it became part of the story that I'd entered the draw my mistake. It took me until about Christmas before I got used to it, but there had been one upside. Everyone now knows me as the "accidental patient", and it's pretty good for getting the odd free coffee or snack here and there.
It doesn't seem like it was a year ago. Feels more like a lifetime. But I'm here. Somehow. My headgear straps have just had their seasonal colour change - it's been decided ghoulish green is the colour of choice for this year's winner. In about 90 minutes time I'll be called back onto the stage to draw the "lucky" winner of this years "prize you've all been waiting for". Before then, though, I have a table to stand behind. They thought me looking after the entries would be a good reminder to read the form before they signed it. It seems as though my humiliation isn't over quite yet...
