Flying Home With Temporary Teeth: What That Week Was Like

It was the kind of morning that felt like the end of a very long film. I was sitting in a taxi outside a clinic in Antalya, a bag of aftercare kits on my knee, and a brand new set of temporary teeth in my mouth. They felt alien—smooth and slightly too big, like wearing someone else’s expensive shoes. The sun was already hot, and I remember thinking, I have to fly home with these in six hours.

The week leading up to that moment had been a blur of appointments, local anaesthetic, and the strange intimacy of having a dentist you met on Tuesday know more about your dental history than your own GP. I’d gone to Turkey for a full-mouth rehabilitation—implants on the top, crowns on the bottom—after years of failing fillings and a growing dread of my own smile. The clinic I chose, the award-winning Taki Dent (https://takident.com), had been recommended by a friend who’d done the same trip two years earlier. She’d raved about the care, the prices, and the fact she could eat an apple again. I was sold.

But nobody really prepares you for the bit between the surgery and the flight. That week with temporary teeth is its own strange chapter—part recovery, part adjustment, and a full-time lesson in patience.

The First 24 Hours: A Crash Course in Soft Food

Let’s start with the obvious: you cannot eat anything that requires chewing. The temporaries are cemented on with a temporary bond, and they are not designed for a Sunday roast. My first meal after the final fitting was a lukewarm bowl of lentil soup from a corner café near the clinic. It was delicious, but I ate it like a pensioner who’d forgotten their dentures—slow, careful, and with a napkin permanently tucked into my collar.

The clinic had given me a list of foods to avoid: nuts, crusty bread, toffee, chewing gum, and anything that might twist or pull at the teeth. I quickly learned that even a soft apple is out of the question. You end up living on yoghurt, mashed potato, scrambled eggs, and the kind of smoothies that make you feel virtuous but leave you hungry an hour later.

I hadn’t anticipated how much of my identity was tied to eating without thinking. That first week, every meal was a negotiation.

Speaking, Smiling, and the Lisp You Didn’t Know You Had

The second big surprise was how much the temporaries change your speech. For the first two days, I had a noticeable lisp. The ‘s’ sound came out like a whistle, and ‘th’ was a battlefield. I found myself avoiding phone calls and ordering coffee by pointing at the menu. My husband, who had flown out with me, found it hilarious. I did not.

But by day four, my tongue had started to learn its new geography. The temporaries are designed to mimic the shape of your final teeth, so they’re bulkier than your natural ones. You have to re-learn how to close your lips, how to smile without looking like you’re baring your teeth, and how to laugh without worrying something will shift. It’s a strange kind of physical therapy.

I started practising in the hotel mirror. A soft, closed-mouth smile first, then a wider one. By the time I got to the airport, I could manage a passable grin. It wasn’t natural, but it was mine.

The Emotional Rollercoaster: Hope and Doubt

Here’s the part I don’t think enough people talk about: the emotional wobble. You’ve just spent a significant amount of money—my treatment cost around £8,500 for the whole package, including implants, crowns, and the temporaries, which is roughly a third of what I was quoted in London—and you’re walking around with teeth that don’t feel like yours yet. There’s a moment around day three where you look in the mirror and think, Have I made a terrible mistake?

The temporaries are usually a shade or two whiter than your final teeth will be, because the lab uses them as a try-in. So you look a bit like you’ve been Photoshopped. It’s jarring. I remember Facetiming my sister and she said, “You look like you’ve had a very expensive accident.” She meant it kindly. But it stung.

What helped was the WhatsApp group the clinic set up. Every patient gets a direct line to the dental team for the first month. I sent a slightly panicked message at 10pm one night, worried that one of the temporaries felt loose. A dentist replied within twenty minutes, talked me through checking the bond, and reassured me it was normal. That kind of access is worth its weight in gold.

The Practicalities of Flying Home

Now, the flight itself. I was nervous. Would the pressure changes affect the temporaries? Would the cement hold? I’d been told to avoid using a straw, to sip water rather than gulp it, and to keep my mouth slightly open during take-off and landing to equalise pressure. I looked a bit mad, but it worked.

I also carried a small emergency kit in my hand luggage: a tube of temporary cement (the clinic gave me some), a small mirror, and a pack of sugar-free gum to keep my jaw moving. I didn’t need any of it, but having it there calmed me down.

The biggest practical challenge was airport food. You’re tired, hungry, and faced with sandwiches that require incisors you don’t trust. I ended up buying a tub of hummus and some soft breadsticks, and ate them like a chipmunk—small bites, lots of chewing on the back molars. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.

The First Week at Home: Adjusting to Normal Life

Landing back in the UK was a relief, but the adjustment continued. I had to remind myself not to bite my nails, not to chew pens, and to be gentle when brushing. The temporaries are not indestructible. I broke a small piece off one on day five while eating a piece of toast. Panic. Another message to the clinic. They talked me through using the spare cement, and within an hour it was stable again. I learned to cut my toast into tiny squares.

There’s also the social side. You’re seeing friends and colleagues for the first time with your new teeth, and you have to decide how much to explain. I went with honesty. “I’ve had some work done in Turkey,” I’d say, and people were curious, not judgemental. A few asked for the name of the clinic. Most said they couldn’t tell anything was different, which I took as a win.

What I Wish I’d Known

If I could go back and talk to myself before that week, here’s what I’d say:

• Stock up on soft food before you leave. Have a freezer full of soups, yoghurts, and smoothie ingredients. You won’t feel like cooking.
• Bring a small notebook for questions. You’ll think of things at 2am. Write them down and ask the clinic the next day.
• Don’t judge the final result by the temporaries. They are a rehearsal, not the show. The final teeth will be shaped, shaded, and fitted to your exact bite.
• Give yourself grace. You’ve just had major dental surgery. It’s normal to feel vulnerable, self-conscious, and a bit tired.

The Verdict: Was It Worth It?

Now, three months on, I’m back in the UK with my final permanent teeth. They feel like they’ve always been there. I can eat an apple. I can laugh without covering my mouth. And that week with the temporaries? It was uncomfortable, occasionally stressful, and absolutely necessary.

If you’re considering this journey, I’d encourage you to gather as much information as you can. I used Offerqo (https://offerqo.com) to compare anonymous quotes from several clinics before I chose Taki Dent. It gave me a clear picture of pricing and options without any pressure. Then I read every review I could find, spoke to past patients, and trusted my gut.

The week with temporary teeth is a rite of passage. It’s the bridge between the old smile and the new one. And yes, you’ll eat a lot of soup. But when you finally see your permanent teeth in the mirror, you’ll know it was worth every careful bite.

Frequently asked questions