Dentistry: The Cheap Knock-off Version

Exactly one week ago, I rewarded my mother's incessant nagging and my father's gruff concern with a visit to the dentist. My broken tooth was far less painful to endure than the things I feared at the hands of local oral hygienist, but I already made the mistake of mentioning my broken molar in this blog, and would rather not give my mother ulcers by refusing to treat it. Although from 5,000 miles away, that might be an interesting feat.

Roughly two weeks ago, I contacted a dentist recommended, via email chain, by a friend of a friend of a relative, who responded abruptly and angrily in rapid Turkish to my inquiry "İngilizce konuşur musunuz?" (Do you speak English?)- and then hung up on me. Undeterred (okay, my mother was undeterred...), I went to Semih Bey ("Mr. Semih") - the director of the school, who fancies himself to be our pseudo-parent in Turkey, and is always offering his help. I explained the situation, and he immediately made several phone calls, resulting in an appointment with a friend of his who happened to be a dentist. Semih Bey also arranged a car for Alex and I so we didn't have to pay for a taxi, and for a teacher to babysi- ahem, accompany us.

So a week later (which was last Monday), we left with Mehtap- the same woman who took care of me when I first arrived, whom I am deeply indebted to, and who clearly only looks after me under duress- a bit before ten AM with the contracted vehicle, and headed to Ankara University.

University.


I was forced to hope that this was a teaching school, and not just some kids with rusty pliers. Unfortunately, Mehtap didn't have the patience and no one else had the language skills to explain where I was going, what they're going to do to me once I got there, how much it would cost me, or any number of other questions bouncing around in my head as we drove to this place. The three of us were dropped off just outside in the entrance- the perfect location to see several lab-coated, extremely young-looking Turks lighting up. Because smoking and dentistry go hand in hand. So I entered this place where I planned to let strangers stick foreign objects into my mouth while chanting "It's-the-culture-it's-the-culture-it's-the-culture" and trying to keep my breathing at a non-panicked pace. We passed the smokers and entered the building, only to be confronted by three off-shooting hallways stuffed with ill Turkish persons, a long, unhelpful Turkish department list on the wall, and an empty Turkish help desk. Mehtap paced, turned in a circle, and looked vaguely confused.

An auspicious start, I must say.

Mehtap asked a passing lab coated-person for directions, and we headed up the stairs. We passed at least a hundred coughing, sneezing, miserable-looking people who lined the corridor walls on our way up three flights of stairs and around a few corners. We (by which I mean Mehtap) found the correct office, which was locked, and waited outside with a mother and her precocious five year old daughter, dressed all in purple with bright pink tennis shoes and a pink plastic Disney princess heart necklace. Despite her soft-spoken, headscarved mother's best intentions, she immediately bopped over to us and introduced herself. Mehtap talked with her a bit, and the little girl turned to us. "Merhaba! Hoş geldiniz!" (Hello! Welcome!") she chirped, and glancing back to her mother for approval, she chattered a more elaborate welcome to me, and greeted me in the traditional Turkish manner for someone you greatly respect. Taking my hand in both of hers, she kissed my fingers and touched it briefly to her forehead. "Charmed" doesn't even begin to cover my emotions. I wanted to pick her up, stick her in my purse, and run. My morals getting the better of me, I wanted to at least take a photo of her- but there was a reason I didn't bring a camera to a dentist's appointment.

After maybe a half hour of attempting to communicate with and being greatly entertained by this adorable girl, the dentist arrived and ushered Alex, Mehtap and I into her closet-sized office. She asked, in slightly accented English, what the problem was and then took a quick look. We walked from her office, down the hall to another room, where a few more people clucked over my teeth, talked amongst themselves in Turkish, and agreed to send me to the "Radyasyon" department. Which, covered in yellow-black-yellow hazard signs and the words "radyasyon alanı!", was really reassuring. I got my teeth x-rayed in a radiation cubicle, puke green and less than six feet tall (several feet short of the ceiling). The resulting image caused much consternation among my dental team, most of whom spoke English but none of whom bothered to do so for my benefit. So I was stuck watching, ping-pong style, as the dentists and Mehtap discussed my mouth, without ever telling me what was going on. In case you've ever wondered what it feels like to be three years old, this was it. Eventually several people motioned for me to follow a girl through a set of double doors.

Imagine an inner-city nail salon. It's a bit grimy, and there's rows of chairs set up, informational anatomy posters on the walls, and poor fluorescent lighting. The people running the show have suspect hygienic habits, and speak broken English. Now add needles filled with God-only-knows-what, drills, reused gloves, and the idea of all of it going into one's mouth.

Abject terror best describes my first impression. It was also my second, third, and fourth, but who's counting. I was ushered, alone, to a seat on the far side of the room, in the corner (with mold creeping down the inseam of the walls), by a window- and my dentist cheerfully opened the window for me, revealing sleeting rain and five rows of icy barbed wire. I swear to God.

My dentist, who looked about 22, smiled and said hello. She apologized for her slow speech, explaining that she could read and write fluent English because of her studies but rarely spoke it. She pointed to a syringe on a small counter. "For... if pain, it numbs. You... what is the word? Inject?" She made a motion as though pushing the syringe into my gums. Like I needed a visual. "Give me a shot. You'd say you can give someone a shot." I closed my mouth tightly and tried to keep the horror off my face. The needle had come with the syringe- not from those cute, airtight hypoallergenic packets that I once took for granted. The dentist explained that if it hurt too much, she would give me a shot. Right.

I then proceeded to have my tooth drilled, and the previous filling entirely removed. She took a short break, letting me twitch a bit as the air caressed my newly exposed nerves. Then she stuffed my mouth with cotton balls (I have no idea), and filled the tooth with a suspicious, off-white material, held a funny machine that looked like a hair dryer against it, and repeated the process for about a half hour. After she finished, and fished the soggy cotton balls out of my mouth, she asked if I could do something for her. "Of course," I smiled, completely mystified. She explained that she had a friend who studied in Australia for a year, and when he returned he claimed that she spoke very poor English. I had complimented her English earlier, and it was understandable- a significant achievement. So she asked me, shyly, if I would mind repeating that sentiment. She then left the room and returned with an opened cell phone, and I defended her honor to a surprised (and fluent) Turk on the other end. She thanked me profusely and took the phone back, beaming because a "native speaker" had stood up for her.

And for possibly the first time, I returned to TOBB with a smile on my face.