The French Dentist

Now that my epic about Greece is done (eat your heart out Homer), I'm back to everyday life in France. And going to the dentist is about as "everyday" as it gets.

I developed a toothache a few weeks ago, which recently turned into a whole-mouth ache. After a few days of popping Advil, I finally gave in and resolved to call a dentist.

The Levallois-Perret directory lists at least 50 different dentists in the area. I randomly chose one because her office was close to the apartment and because I thought a female dentist might be gentle. When I called, I found myself speaking directly to the dentist, who didn't sound gentle at all. And should I be worried that she didn't have a receptionist?

I explained the problem to her, and she said "When can you come in for dental surgery?"

Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about dental surgery? Could it just be a cavity? I squirmed a little bit and finally made an appointment for Friday afternoon. I decided to chaulk up her use of "surgery" to a bad translation.

So this afternoon we left work early and Dave dropped me off at the address. The building looked like an average apartment building and I started a worry a little bit. She buzzed me in and I walked to the 2nd floor, where I walked into a dark apartment hallway and stood before an average apartment door.

I knocked and the dentist answered -- white coat, face mask, and all. She directed me to a small waiting room and left me there to panic. The walls were dirty and cracked, the seat cushions worn, the magazines dusty. A large window overlooked a rooftop and a wall. A few sad plants drooped in a corner.

I tried to make myself feel better by reminding myself that my father had his wisdom teeth pulled by a military dentist without anesthetic. Which made me wonder if this woman was authorized to administer anesthetic, and if so, did I even want her to?

Eventually the patient before me left (a survivor: a good sign) and I was escorted to the back room. It looked like an average dentist's office and the chair and equipment seemed quite new and modern. However, at the foot of the chair was her desk, covered in papers and tooth charts, and behind the chair a phone was ringing. She scurried over to the phone, spoke quickly in French, then hollered over her shoulder to me, "What time are we?" like I'd just popped by for a chat and she was on the phone with a mutual friend.

I felt like I was standing in a friend's kitchen talking about the weather or something with a giant dentist's chair in the middle of the room. It was just weird. I started to long for my friendly hippie dentist in Rochester Hills with his flat panel TVs and bustling staff of hygenists and receptionists. You know things are bad when you start to miss your dentist.

After the phone call she sat down at her desk and put all of my information into her database. She really wasn't as grumpy as she sounded on the phone and I felt bad judging her before we had met. She was happy to practice speaking English and I felt comfortable enough practicing my bad French.

She eyed a folder I had brought with me and said "Are those your x-rays?". I handed the x-ray over and watched as she browsed the images like the Sunday paper. I wondered if she was really looking at my teeth or just marveling at the x-ray technology my Michigan dentist seemed to have.

Finally (after a few more phone calls) she sat me down and had a look at my teeth. She spent about two minutes poking around, then announced that my gum was bleeding, and that's why it hurt.

I argued, "I'm a bad flosser. Bleeding gums are not anything new. That can't be it".

She poked some more and said, "Your tooth is good. Your teeth are clean. You should use mouthwash, and floss of course. That should do it."

You have to be kidding me. I walked in there expecting "dental surgery" and had braced myself for the horrible notion of my first root canal. And now a few pokes and a tiny mirror have confirmed that there's nothing really wrong with me?

The dentist sat me up, and scurried behind her desk to close out the visit. I think she sensed my skepticism, because she wrote me a perscription for a strong "French" mouthwash, then told me to come back at the end of the year for a cleaning.

Then she billed me 21 euros, which was the total cost for a non-French person without a government healthcare card. You have to love the socialist healthcare. As she escorted me to the door she winked and whispered "Don't worry, the French don't floss, either".