Night Sweats at the Dental Klinik

Fear of the unknown takes on a new dimension when the prospect of pain trips over the language barrier in the dark.

On a recent Friday evening while chewing on an overcooked wedge of potato I felt a tooth split.  I called the number for the nearby emergency dental klinik and was told to be at their office at 8 p.m.  I arrived there a few minutes before the hour and found the entrance area as well as the building dark and locked; as I stood at the door and phoned the klinik again, the only light and warmth was the steam of my breath lit by a distant, dim street lamp.  I identified myself, and the person on the other end only said "Five minutes" and hung up; I wondered whether I had called a taxi dispatcher by mistake.  At precisely 8, however, a large white motorcycle rumbled up to the klinik, and two middle-aged men, one with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and the other noisily chomping gum, got off and approached me.  "We are the dentist," the one with the cigarette said, and, smiling, they offered their hands and then led me into the dark clinic.  Dr Cigarette handed me a slip of paper and said "Eighty-eight euro.  Sign Unterschrift.  You agree to pay."  I was led to an examination room.  Although they had largely exhausted their English vocabularies in greeting me, they were quick to understand the problem:  "Oooh, ja," Dr Gum said as he shined a light in my mouth and saw that a chunk of tooth angled out and slicing into my tongue.  Dr Cigarette took a look.  "Ja, ja." 

"Now Roentgen."  I saw the x-ray chamber and fear rose in my throat.  We entered.  Judging from their gesturing and animated talk with each other--I thought I could pick out the words for "mutation" and "death"--I suspect neither quite knew how to use the x-ray equipment.  After turning the equipment on and off repeatedly, and then removing, turning, and repositioning the lead apron on me several times, at last they got it figured out; the two men exited the star chamber.  The undoubtedly generous dose of roentgens that followed showed that a crown, not the tooth, had split, and soon Dr Gum put me back in the chair and glued the works back together.  They took my 88 euros and told me they were making an appointment for me to come in Monday at 9 a.m. to start the process of getting a new crown.  I walked home, in the cold and the dark, comfortable in the knowledge that the inside of my head, at least, was warm and well lit from radiation.

Dr Gel

Monday morning I was back--to more unknowns.  The receptionist had no record of my Friday night visit and no record of my having an appointment that morning.  When I told her about the night experience, she wanted another 88 euros.  Soon, however, she grasped the situation, and I was told to take a seat in the waiting room.  Half an hour later a third dentist appeared.  With a face wreathed and creased from exaggerated smiling, this new dentist sported long blond hair, shining with gel, slicked straight back until it curled onto his shoulders.  He stared at my return smile like someone who collected teeth, and I wondered whether he might have a fish bowl full of them, like some people keep wine bottle corks.  Soon I was seated in the examination room, and Dr Gel smiled at me like he was about to enjoy his work.  He told me in German that he could understand English if I spoke it to him but he could not speak it back to me.  It soon also became apparent that he assumed that I could understand all his German but could not speak it back to him.  He pulled rubber gloves over his nicotine-stained fingers and revved the drill like a motorcycle at a traffic light.  Then he uttered one sentence in the only English I heard from him that night:  "I like to work without anesthetic."  I am not making this up.  He then gave me to understand, however, that if the pain became unbearable, I should wave my arm and he would stop.  He then said something in German and let out a loud laugh, which was, I could only guess, to relax me and reassure me, perhaps a joke about making a lampshade out of gum tissue.  So I laughed too.  Soon he had the old crown drilled out and, to measure the space for a temporary crown, made multiple applications of blue rubbery goo in molds.  Again, a blur of German and a big laugh.  Perhaps a joke about almost breaking my jaw.  Again, I laughed.  When he had finished, with his tobacco-scented fingers he picked bits of blue clay out of my mustache.  I said, "Danke, ich bin schön."  He gave a hearty laugh.  Again, I laughed.

Because Dr Gel prefers to work at night, he scheduled me to return at 8 p.m. a week later.  This time the office was open and I was greeted by a young man at the reception desk:  "You pay now?"  He read the total:  "Euros 2,158.51."  I asked to see the itemized bill and noticed that it once again included an 88 euro charge for the first visit; he deducted it.  To hear--on a sum of that magnitude--"and 51 cents" was, I believe, aimed at making me believe that the pricing was arrived at with scientific precision, without the least bit of whimsical inflation.  I was ushered in to see Dr Gel.  He gave me a welcoming barrage of German, to which I offered a handshake, a smile, and vigorous nodding.  As I sank into the chair, head back, blinding light filtering through my eyelids, mouth agape, he remarked again about no anesthetic.  To buoy my spirits and keep things light, he next told me a joke from which I could pick out only the words "neighbor" and "wife," and then he winked and we both enjoyed a raucous laugh as I was quite certain the story was hilarious and I always like to please someone standing over me with dental implements. Soon, with his favorite pliers, he had tugged off the temporary crown and with his drill touched up the jagged remains of my tooth and perhaps put holes in a few of the neighboring teeth for fun, all the while softly singing what I believe was "We Are Marching Into North Africa."  He affixed the new crown.  With much smiling and several hearty handshakes he led me to the lobby.  Auf Wiedersehen!  I made my way into the dark street and soon was home, liberally applying bourbon anesthesia.