Hitting a Nerve

There are many signs that my stay in Germany is more substantial than a post-college flirtation with Europe. For example, I know the word for that plastic thing that you hammer into a wall to anchor a screw - only in German. And in a weak moment I thought the word friend might actually be spelled more like its German cousin, as in freind (Freund auf Deutsch). But the most obvious sign that I am really making a nest here is that I went to see a German dentist.

A dentist is something that everyone choses carefully. But in my family there is an almost religious (bordering fanatical) faithfulness to the honorable Dr. R. Only once did I venture into an unknown practice, though I haven't lived in my hometown for eight years. The price of that sole instance of infidelity is a sensitive tooth, its yowling response to hot, cold, and pressure as deep as my regret.

Before I left for Germany the first time, my attentive mother made sure to help me squeeze in an appointment with Him. The second time around, however, I had started dumping a large sum of money into German health insurance each month, and somehow, with a sunken heart, I couldn't justify going without US insurance coverage to visit the family doctor.

So I bit the bullet (don't tell Dr. R.) and asked around in Bonn for a reputable teeth caregiver. I came away from my first set of visits with contradictory feelings. On the one hand, I was relieved to find that treatment results were similar - no complaints. On the other hand, I was bemused to see German/American cultural differences reflected in dental care, and the lasting psychological impact of my visit couldn't be less familiar.

The emphasis of my appointment with Dr. S. was a performance review: how I am doing in the guardianship of my teeth. She took my jaw under the microscope and gave me feedback: fear-inducing feedback. She told me that my gums were on a forward march to pulp-dom (as a result of haphazard flossing) and did a demonstration. A delicate, pin-shaped object sunk in beside a rear molar like a rake into a pile of tender leaves. She smeared my teeth with blue dye and used a small camera to project every patch of plaque thus revealed onto a computer screen. She pointed out where small pieces of tooth enamel were worn away, leaving cold, frightened nerve endings to fend for themselves.

With Dr. R. the sober, clinical analysis must have taken place in his head. He certainly found faults - I've had my share of fillings. But with a sunny grin he preferred to talk about his trips to Haiti and Lithuania and ask if that heart-breaking brother of mine had settled down. During the standard professional cleaning of the teeth - itself rather a rarity this side of the pond - his assistant always asked which flavor toothpaste I preferred, offering bubble gum until I was well into my twenties. And I never left the office without a sparkling new tooth brush, a stash of floss - travel size and regular - and a foamy sticker or an eraser shaped like a tooth.

Dr. S.'s goal was to offer objective, relevant, practical advice. But because she bypassed all of the small talk avenues and failed to make any encouraging remark, I found her approach cold-hearted - and very German. But I also see that the chatty optimism of my family dentist, just as stereotypically American, can also leave something to be desired. Because, while one result of Doctor S.'s frank language is that I have had nightmares of smiling into the mirror, only to see gaping, black holes, I also can't remember a time in which I took better care of my teeth.