I’ve had one tooth that has been a problem my whole life. Even the baby tooth that used to be in the same place was a problem. I progressed from a traditional metallic filling which lasted from my teen years through much of my twenties, then I got a white filling which cracked after several years, and finally got a crown about three or four years ago. The crown never felt completely right, but it didn’t really hurt, so I just dealt with it. Over the last few months, however, I’ve been experiencing intermittent flare-ups in the tooth with sensitivity to cold drinks, throbbing if I exert myself wrestling with the boys, and the like for a few days at a time. I decided to get it checked out at the next cleaning I had scheduled, which was yesterday.
I get a call in the morning to inform me that my hygienist is ill, so they are canceling my cleaning, but I can still come in to see the dentists 15 minutes later than when I was originally supposed to see him. Swiss medical professionals generally take their schedules pretty seriously. Had I called up to cancel just 2 hours before my appointment, you can be assured I would’ve been made to feel that they were quite put out, reminded that the time was specifically set aside for me, possibly told about their policy requiring 24 hours notice for a cancellation, and maybe even charged for the missed appointment. On the flip side, it is not uncommon at all for those same Swiss professionals to call us to cancel/reschedule an appointment on the same day. I think sometimes it’s just because we’re the last appointment and the entire office wants to leave early on a beautiful, sunny day. I’m not joking. Even arriving late can start you off on the wrong foot with the reception staff
So, I arrive a little early, fearing that if I actually arrive at the new time of 11:30 rather than the original time of 11:15, I’d be blamed for misunderstanding they’d get all gitchy on me. After 10 minutes in the waiting area, they inform me that they’re running behind and there is no room for me on this floor and can I please go outside and up the stairs to their next level. Okay. I do that and ring the bell, because both doors are always locked so you need to be buzzed in, and the same woman from the 1st floor opens the door to let me in. I said, “Oh, it’s you! That was fast.” She giggles a little and then asks me to sit in the 2nd floor waiting room. So, apparently they had a staircase inside that connected the two floors of their office, but patients are required to exit the office and come back in through the buzzer. Curious.
They finally escort me to a room and the doctor arrives a few minutes later to speak with me. He asks if I am certain the pain is coming from that tooth and I assure him that I’m pretty sure, so he digs at it until I wince in pain and then says the only way to know for sure is to take an x-ray. If it was the only way to know for sure, then why the heck did he…ahh, never mind. So we get the x-ray and wait a little longer. Then he brings it in to discuss. As you know, these x-rays are the size of matchbooks. He points to the top of the tooth in question, up in the gum line, and says “Something is going on here with the nerve. Yes, definitely.” But he didn’t sound like it was a definitely, he sounded like he was trying to talk himself into it. I looked at the matchbook and it all looked the same color grey to me. But he’s the trained professional.
He asks again about the age of the crown and explains that sometimes a new crown can damage the root and, over the course of the next few years, it will die back and then people will complain about it. Don’t ask me how a dead nerve can cause pain because I’m not the trained professional. Then one of his attendants bring him a very small cylinder of ice or an ice-cold metal cylinder. I didn’t get a good look at it before he stuck it in my mouth. He puts it on one tooth and I cringe from the cold, then on the tooth in question and no pain, then on the next tooth and I cringe in cold pain, then to another part of another tooth - pain, then back to the tooth in question – nothing. Unconvinced, he tries this on, what seems, every tooth in the upper right side of my mouth, bumping back to the tooth in question from time to time. “Are you sure that doesn’t hurt?” Yeah, I’m sure.
“Okay, so this is what we’re going to do,” as he continues looking at the matchbook to convince himself. “The nerve is mostly dead in that tooth, so we will perform a root canal to dig out all that dead material, inject it with special medicaments, and then finish it in a couple weeks.”
“You mean, today?” I asked. Remember, I only expected this to be a consultation and we’d schedule a later appointment to actually conduct any procedures. “Yes, we have time. We will take you now and drill a hole to get started, then fill it, and schedule a follow-up appointment.” I look at my watch, “But I have to pick up my sons in one hour from school.” He replies, “Oh, this will only take a half hour. And, in two weeks, we will look at that crown, and decide what to do. This will be expensive, but when we’re done you will have a perfect tooth.” Yes, he actually told me it would be expensive, but not exactly what that meant. If you’ve ever purchased anything in
He tells me, “I don’t think we will need anesthetic because the nerve is probably dead.” I thought he was joking. If I thought he’d understand English sarcasm, I would’ve replied that I’m sure he won’t need any anesthetic, but that “probably dead” wasn’t good enough for me. Instead, I just looked at him a few seconds, chuckled, and said “If you’re sure”. To re-assure me, he said, “If you feel any pain, you just tell me.” “Oh, you can count on it,” I replied.
So, then they strap this balloon-like patch of rubber with a small hole off to one side surrounded by a tiny rubber band, to my tooth and stretch it across my mouth to ensure that I won’t be able to intelligibly tell anyone anything. That’s when the pain began. They slid the tiny rubber band over my tooth and shoved it up under my gum line. When I cringed, he explained that “it will hurt a little, but you’ll soon get used to it”. I am not making any of this up. But I’d soon learn that this was just foreplay. The truth was, when the real pain started, a two-sizes too small rubber band under my gums was negligible. There is pain and there is PAIN!
Then the drilling started. I tell you, I expected intense, bone-jarring pain as soon as he broke through to the center and hit the nerve. But I was mistaken. The drilling was nerve-racking, but endurable. It was when he actually grabbed the exposed nerve with a pair of tweezers or some other instrument of torture that I nearly swallowed my tongue!
The dentist’s training obviously included awareness of body language, because when I gurgled through the balloon & spit-sucker and arched up on my heels, he said “Okay, anesthetic then.” Apparently, it only took him a few seconds to apply the anesthetic, because in less than a minute he said, “You may feel a little pressure”, and returned to work. Hah! A little pressure my ass!
Let me try to explain the feeling. The best description is that it felt kind of like someone grabbing hold of a raw, “mostly dead” nerve branch with a piece of metal and trying to pull it taut so he can cut it up near the base. I arch and gurgle and my hands are sweating something fierce and he says, “Hmm, the anesthetic is not working.” You think?
I understand that English is not his first, probably not even his second, language, but obviously those words mean something different to him then they do to me. To me, if the anesthetic isn’t working, that means that we should pause a moment, apply some more anesthetic possibly with a needle up in the gum line like they do in industrialized countries in the 21st century. To him, it was apparently just a statement of how unfortunate the situation was and that we should soldier on through.
The mild pain was like a really intense version of that uncomfortable sensation you get if you chew on aluminum foil, the moderate pain was like an ice cube held against my teeth, and the intense pain felt remarkably like someone handling my exposed nerves with metal tools. At one point, they took a break to take an x-ray to judge the length of some pins or needles or something and I felt the dull throbbing pain that had brought me to the place in the first place and thought, that was nothing. If I had known what was in store for me, I probably wouldn’t have said anything. They pulled the balloon aside so I could hold the x-ray slide in place with a finger. It was during the x-ray that my mobile phone first went off. It had been far longer than half an hour already. Sonofabitch! Their time is precious to them, but mine is… ahh, nevermind.
My German isn’t great, and my Swiss German is even worse, but I clearly understood the words “This is not good” when he looked at the developed film. Oh, Shit! What now?
Fortunately for me, “This is not good” was a reference to the quality of the x-ray, and not the condition of my mouth. They took another x-ray, convinced that I didn’t hold my finger still enough the first time I’m sure, and it came out positive. They got the measurements they needed and then proceeded to inflict more pain and drilling. I gurgle and arch again at one point, to which he asks “Can you feel that?” What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I can feel it! I wasn’t trying to harmonize with the drill, you son of… ah nevermind.
At times like this I reflect on how remarkably fragile the human body is. I stand over 6’3” and weigh over 200 pounds, but a tiny little tooth and a tiny little nerve brought me to me knees. Well, not literally to my knees. It was mostly on my heels and elbows, but you get the picture.
My phone kept ringing and I kept receiving text messages from Steph who had another appointment to get to at 1:30 and was afraid I wouldn’t be in time to pick our boys up from their respective pre-schools at 1:00. He explained that he is sorry the anesthetic didn’t work. Apparently the nerve was really inflamed up at the top and, wouldn’t you know it, it was only “mostly” dead. It seems that “mostly” dead nerves can still feel pain. He mentioned something about ph and such, but the reason didn’t really matter. I had survived.
When they finished, I asked if there are any special instructions for eating or cleaning or pain relief. He said, “No. We’ll see you in two weeks. If it hurts, you just call me any time.”
“Well, should I have some pain reliever or something?” I asked. I’m not making this up… he said, “Probably not. It should hurt for one or two days. This is normal. But if it hurts longer, you call me by 4:00 tomorrow. I’ll be here. Someone’s always here until 4:00 on Friday.”
Just so I was clear, I wanted to restate my understanding of my options in the event that I experienced pain. “So, it should hurt for one or two days and that’s okay, but if it hurts for more than two days, I should call you. Except, that you all go home tomorrow at 4:00 for the weekend, so if I experience pain over the weekend, then I should just tough it out until Monday? Is that right?” “Yes. Do you have pain killer?” was his response. “Do you mean, like Ibuprofen? I have plenty of ibuprofen.” I replied. I am an American, after all. “Good. So let’s look at the schedule for two weeks.” Who says the Swiss don’t have a sense of humor?
I get on the schedule for exactly two weeks and now have just 10 minutes to get home to get the car, then drive out to two different schools to pick up my boys on time. I explain that I left my coat in the other waiting room on the other floor, so the dentist tells me to go back out in the hall and down and someone will buzz me in. Sonofa… So, I collect my coat and then head out.
Steph had called again in the midst of the second round of x-rays and I was able to answer her through the balloon and spit-sucker. She asked if I wanted her to bring me the keys to save time. I said yes, but the pain kept me from thinking clearly. I thought she meant she was going to drive the car up to the dentists office (which is just a 7min walk from home) and drop the keys at the desk. It was a miscommunication. She has only driven once in
So, I jogged home and was surprised that the jarring didn’t rack my jaw with pain, but I guess the nerve cannot conduct any pain signals if it’s sitting in a mushy clump in a tray at the dentist’s office. I’m huffing and puffing and I have 5min left. I make quite an entrance when I zip into the parking lane at Asher’s school. Unfortunately, all the kids, teacher, and parents were waiting outside around the bend. I didn’t get close to anyone, but I sure looked like a reckless father, especially with the rock music on loud and the windows down. I’m sure I reaffirmed some American or stay-at-home stereotypes in their minds.
One of Aidan’s Swiss teachers called my mobile to say she could drive him home, but I arrived just as they were about to pull out. I explained to her that it was the dentist and she immediately responded in disgust, “Oh, the dentists are always late.” I didn’t know any Swiss were ever late, at least by their own admission, but now I know better.
That was my day.
