How My Profession Chose Me Randy Weinstein Wantagh, L.I., native Randy Weinstein, 22, recently graduated from Lehigh University with a BA in biology and a minor in computer science. In September, he will enter New York University College of Dentistry, moving one step closer to realizing his dream of becoming an orthodontist.      The story of how I chose dentistry as a career begins somewhere around the time of my fifth birthday. My mother had brought my older sister Andrea and me to an orthodontist. After Andrea had been examined, my mom, for no particular reason that I knew of, asked the orthodontist to look at me. Having never been to a dentist before, I wondered what he could possibly be looking for.      After probing a few minutes, he assured my mom that my baby teeth had come in fine and that there was nothing to worry about. But maternal intuition caused my mom to persist, and she refused to leave without his taking an X-ray. She told him she had noticed some black and blue marks around my nasal passage and my right eye. After some discussion, he relented.      I was frightened, especially when the nurse took me into a special room and told me to put my chin on something called a rest. She had me bite down on a piece of cardboard, told me not to move, and then left the room. I was shaking with fear. I heard a click as a camera circled my head once and then stopped. A minute or so later, the nurse returned and led me to the waiting room. I grabbed a Highlights magazine and pretended to read, hoping that the orthodontist would forget about me. I was about halfway through the issue when he called us all in and showed us an X-ray of my cranium and jaw.      He agreed with my mom; some peculiarity did exist. And in what sounded like a foreign language, he explained that my adult central incisor was lodged just to the right of my nasal passage and below my eye. "But don't worry," the orthodontist assured my mom, as I thought longingly of the Highlights in the waiting room. "He is a very lucky boy." Poking my face, he continued his explanation: "If this tooth had been any farther over to the left, it would have blocked your son's airflow, and in time, could bring great disaster."      He continued, as if playing out a dramatic television program. "Furthermore, if the tooth had been any higher, your son would have lost his vision in one eye. Lastly, if we had not detected this problem--well there is no telling what would happen."      Little did I know that from that moment and for the next 12 years my life would be dramatically altered.      That evening, the discussion at the dinner table was about my visit to the dentist. Andrea was not even mentioned. Mom and Dad both agreed that I needed an oral surgeon immediately. For the next three weeks, I went from surgeon to surgeon until my parents were assured that we had the best one on Long Island.      I can say now that the surgeon they selected not only changed my life, he eventually influenced my career choice.      Barely five-and-one-half years old, I had braces put on my upper teeth. Walking into kindergarten, and later first grade, I was greeted with salutations like "Hey Train Tracks," or "Metal Mouth, over here!" A unique variation was "Come over here and play, Monkeybar Mouth." Having braces at age 12 is status, but at five, it spells only problems.      A few months after the braces were put on, my parents took me back to the oral surgeon's office. At this visit, Mom, without thinking, directed my attention to a picture, circa 1700s of a skinny, wrinkled man extracting a tooth with rusty pliers. I was terrified; and it was in this state that I was whisked into the operating room. The oral surgeon gave me a shot and placed a gas mask with a horrendous smell over my mouth. I quickly fell asleep with my mother by my head and my father at my feet. After the operation, I remained groggy for hours, my mouth swollen to the size of a grapefruit. My father lifted me carefully and carried me over his shoulder to our car.      That night at home, this "child torture" continued. I couldn't eat any solid foods, so was relegated to a diet of farina and liquids, which my mom fed me through a huge turkey baster. "Why me?" I thought. That night the oral surgeon called to explain to my parents that he had extracted my baby incisor and attached a wire from my braces through the gumline to my adult incisor. "Child torture," I thought again. "Why did I have to go to that dentist with Andrea?"      For the next few years, I went back and forth between the oral surgeon and the orthodontist. I had extractions, my wires tightened and checked, X-rays taken, retaken, and taken some more. By now, the tooth fairy had possession of those baby teeth that had fallen out naturally, while I kept my extracted teeth in a Batman wallet. I asked my dad to put in a kind word to the tooth fairy, requesting her to gently release those teeth that stubbornly held onto the gums. The years ticked away slowly. By the time I was in the fifth grade I could actually see the enamel of my central lateral incisor.      The years ticked away slowly. By the time I was in the fifth grade I could actually see the enamel of my central lateral incisor. My tooth was chugging its way along. Two years later, this stubborn "thing of a tooth" had become fully developed! Just in time for my Bar-Mitzvah. The orthodontist, now my friend, had promised he would remove my braces in time for my rite of passage. So in mid-May, he gave me the best present of all: He removed my braces, and I was back to normal, whatever that means.      My lips felt strange, as if between them and my teeth there was a big space. But as I stand on the bimah (platform), reciting my Haftorah (portion of the law), I smiled brilliantly at an audience who knew nothing of my eight years as Metal Mouth. This triumphant feeling didn't last long, however. Immediately following the Bar-Mitzvah, I got a nice set of bottom braces.      Years passed. The orthodontist retired, and I was relegated to the care of yet another dentist, a superb practitioner, who reshaped my teeth and reset my midline. At 17, my braces were taken off for good, and all I needed was a retainer. I was finally declared a healthy young man.      But my story doesn't end there. I did have to go back to the oral surgeon to have a wisdom tooth extracted. In his now computerized office, I noticed the gruesome picture of that 18th-century dentist, and it made me smile. The oral surgeon showed me my dental records from long ago. I asked him for my extracted wisdom tooth, which he had cut into four sections using not gas but Novocain.      Then he said, "Randy, come back in 10 years."      "10 years?"      "Yes," he continued. "Come back in 10 years. I'll be almost ready to retire and you can gradually take over my practice."      I'm a senior in college now, and as I look back to my fifth birthday, I ask, "What have I learned?" Well, next year I hope to be entering dental school, to pursue a career in orthodontics. Maybe someday, a five-year-old child will come to my office, maybe with an older sibling, and who knows? An incisor, maybe a molar, misplaced in the nasal passage and then, a growing child whose teeth are reshaped to bring a smile of joy to me and everyone else.