German Dentist Part I

Part of the fun of living abroad is figuring out how to do the everyday things that you used to do without thinking. Like going to the dentist.  I thought I’d throw in a little twist today and share another expat adventure with you.  I’d love to hear about any experiences you’ve had with dentists, doctors, or barriers of communication.  It’s so much better when we have stories we can look back on and laugh at no matter how PAINFUL they may be at the moment (that may or may not be a clue into today’s story…).

So are you ready?  Here we go…

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I was never afraid of going to the dentist in the United States as a kid. I suppose if there were such thing as a dentist’s favorite patient, there’s a good chance I could have been it.  I couldn’t help it.  Dr. B said brush, so I did.  He said floss, so I did.  Yeah… sure I did.  Well he was reliably my biggest customer come Girl Scout cookie time year after year.  The irony!  All I know is that I have been going to Dr. B since my preschool class took a fieldtrip to Dr. B’s office. He won me over with a “brush your teeth” pencil. He won my mom over with his passion for awesome teeth (she was chaperoning our trip).

So the way I see it, if you’re going to go to a different dentist for the first time in memory, you might as well take a really big plunge.  Me?  I decided to find a dentist 4,000 miles away, right here in Berlin.  So off I went.

Martin and I had already been there together to make our appointments and decided the place looked great.

I walked to the dentist’s office on a Tuesday morning for my appointment by myself.  I’m trying to be more independent in Germany. I want to be able to do more day-to-day things without Martin helping me. The dentist’s office felt like a great step in the right direction.

And that’s when everything went downhill fast.

“Open wide.”

Just typing those words is giving me the shivers today, and I don’t think I even heard that phrase once.  My appointment was all in German, after all.

I rang the doorbell, and the receptionist buzzed me in. She nodded at me; she seemed to have no trouble remembering who I was. American girl.  Bright red coat.  Smiles a lot.  She pulled out a form and handed it to me. Normal stuff, normal stuff.

Oh wait. Katie? The form is in German.

I recognized a few things like allergies and chronic headaches, but that was it. (Unless you count my name and address – yes! I could answer those!) I held the form toward her and tried to explain that I wasn’t sure what a lot of the words were.

I don’t think she understood me.

Well I mean she didn’t seem to understand the words I was trying to formulate.  My lack of proper subject/verb structure pretty much gave it away.  She didn’t need to know my words.  It was obvious that I was painfully lost.

“We’ll have your husband do it,” she said in German. I nodded.

A second woman flagged me into a room, had me hang up my coat, and showed me where to sit in the patient’s chair. Now this was a routine I knew. Even the chair was the same whitish gray color.

Then the receptionist walked in and gave me a cup. I started rinsing. She told me to stop. I started to spit into my cup. “No, no, no!” she started correcting me and waving her arms toward this tray hooked to my chair. I needed to spit onto the tray.  I wanted to ask if she was joking, but my mouth was full of rinse.

It turns out the receptionist was also the dental hygienists who was going to clean my teeth; the other woman was her assistant.

After I spit onto the tray, they told me to open my mouth again – which mostly consisted of them making mouth gestures and wanting me to mimic them. The receptionist put on a huge mask that I could only describe as the kind you’d see a welder wearing. They grabbed their tools and began cleaning. They did not clean like Dr. B’s staff with their little picks and an earful of chatter.  How’s your brother liking his new job?  I saw your mom at church last weekend.  Are you still flying?  (How do these women in the US know this stuff?!)

I don’t remember a single word taking place in my new dentist’s office.  Perhaps it’s because I thought I was going to shrivel onto the bottom of my chair, so I wasn’t exactly listening for conversation.

My teeth were getting power washed. We’re talking high pressure water. My gums began bleeding. Every time the water pressure hit them, I wanted to scream. My eyes were watering, and I just wanted to quit.  I’d pull back a little or try to twist my head a little; they’d both twist right with me.  The pain was awful.  My hands were clenched together, and I tried desperately to keep them from my face.  Who needs clean teeth, I thought? I’m never coming back here.

The assistant held the sucker tool as my teeth were power washed. I think she was supposed to just suck water, but I could barely breath. I truly felt like my breaths were being sucked right out of me.

(Martin says I have a teensy bit of a flair for exaggeration when I’m in pain… I’ve just never wanted to cry at the dentist’s office before.)

They never handed me a tissue the entire time, which felt weird. Water, fluoride, and teeth stuff were all over my face. Both women pointed to the bathroom when I was done. It was my job to wash my face while they prepared for the next patient: Martin.

I came back into the room for my coat, and that’s when they said they needed to speak to me. It’s all a blur now. All I remember is this: two teeth. kaputt.

With a throbing mouth and wet eyes, I shaved 30 seconds off my walk home. In 2 1/2 minutes, I was in the door, telling Martin something was seriously wrong with me. “I think that I have to go back.   Now I’m not sure, but I think I am going to need two root canals.”

“But Katie, you’ve never even had a cavity before.”

“I know,” I said, throwing my arms into my face and bawling. “But they said my teeth are kaputt. KAPUTT. Dead. Doornails. Gone! I’m going to have to get dentures now. My parents will be furious.  How are we going to pay for this?  All those braces and now my teeth are dead. Wahhh…”

(So looking back, maybe Martin is right about the whole exageration thing.)

“Well I have to go,” Martin said, reaching for his shoes.

“You have to ask them to explain,” I said.

He nodded.

“Oh! And fill out my health form.”

to be continued…