A non-specific ache has bothered me for several months. Sometimes in my lower right jaw, sometimes upper, sometimes – just to keep the intrigue alive – it showed up in my left jaw. It never lasted long and there were weeks without any ache at all. I asked a dentist in the States about it. He ground a tooth down by less than a millimeter, and said it was nothing to worry about.
Then last Friday at lunch I bit into a delicious slice of hot pizza and discovered, without any ambiguity, the source of pain. As my dentist Giuseppe is in the next street over from where I live, I took myself there, posthaste. I told one of his assistants that I had experienced a sudden pain in a tooth. She clucked and immediately began to call other patients to find one who could change an appointment. Three calls, and she put me down for Monday at noon.
For Friday’s supper at Montanucci with friends, following conventional wisdom for when one has a toothache, I ordered soup. Wrong. The tooth was, as it turned out, not sensitive to pressure but to heat. I poured all the croutons into the soup plate, and after they absorbed the broth was able to finish my meal in relative comfort. On Saturday, sensitivity expanded to include cold and pressure. On Sunday it was better. By Monday morning I was wondering if I had been faking the whole thing, though I was stumped as to what advantage there was in pretending to myself that I have a toothache.
Because things often work that way, my appointment at the questura, or police station, for my permesso di soggiorno was also on Monday – at 10:50. Two things back to back, neither of which I could change or be late for. I had to pay an unanticipated fee for the permesso application, which meant dashing up to the post office after my time at the questura, and back again to prove payment. That I had allowed my anxiety regards time to coax me into an early arrival for my appointment turned out to be a good thing. I had ample leisure to walk home, make a couple of required copies, and take a photo before returning to the questura with my receipt, then strolling on to Giuseppe’s.
As I turned into a cross street, I passed the young man who had waited on me Friday evening. There was a moment of “do we know each other well enough to nod?” We decided to politely respect one another’s privacy.
I arrived in Via Montemarte and rang Giuseppe’s bell. The young man I’d passed a few minutes earlier passed again. I turned to ring just in time to avoid another decision about nodding, but this time it felt not polite, but evasive. I was buzzed into Giuseppe’s newly remodeled waiting room, and took a seat.
After a few minutes, someone else buzzed. I was gazing into a corner, contemplating tight schedules, as the dental assistant who had made the appointment possible came in, perhaps returning from an early lunch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her greet me, but I was too late in looking up to return it. I have a notion that people here don’t space out much. I don’t much anymore myself, but when I do and miss an opportunity to acknowledge someone’s greeting, I feel bad.
A few minutes later a tall gentlemen of an advanced age strode out of Giuseppe’s office. He had a magisterial quality, was obviously in wonderful health, and physically very graceful. Giuseppe soon followed, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and invited me into his office. I always feel honored to see him. He’s so utterly competent, focused, and relaxed at the same time (see Dental Health for a more whimsical – though still accurate – description.)
I explained as best I could what had been bothering me. This is stuff I rehearse even in English where I more or less have the vocabulary. When I describe symptoms I always feel like I’m complaining, and even though I can whine and complain with the best of them, I never like myself after I do, so conversations with medical professionals are usually awkward and inadequate. But I got through the basics. Giuseppe poked around a bit, then tapped the suspected tooth with the end of a metal tool. That’s it! He moved in for a closer examination.
“There is an old-style amalgam filling that is falling apart,” he said in Italian, “and a possibility that the tooth is fractured. There may also be an infection, and it may need a root canal.” Oh, boy! “Are you following this?” More or less. “Okay, in English,” and he repeated it all with me helping him out with a word here and there. “I’m sorry for my English.” I’m sorry for my Italian. “I’m trying to learn French so… it… I don’t know how to say it.” They get mixed up? “That’s it.” I wanted to say that the same happens to me, but as there was no third language involved couldn’t figure out how that would work, so remained silent.
“He’s 83 years old.” The man who just left? “Very tall, strong. He was my judo instructor was I was ten.” I hope I’m in as good a shape as he is when I’m seventy. “Oh, yes. I’d be happy to be that healthy now.”
Returning to the tooth, Giuseppe explained that he would remove the filling to better know its condition, then possibly make a hole so that any infection could be dealt with. He donned his gear, his male assistant joined him, and they set to work. The assistant had cleaned my teeth early last March. As he entered the office I missed his acknowledgement, as I had with the female assistant, this time because I assumed he couldn’t possibly remember me. As before, I felt bad for missing his greeting – disconnected. Someday I will learn never to underestimate the memory of an Orvietano.
Giuseppe is noted for his preparedness, and my experience with him bears that out. But this problem called for other more impromptu skills, and I can now attest to his excellence in those, as well. He isolated the tooth with a small rubber blanket and administered a pain killer that did its job without making my face numb. They went to work with such ease and intensity that all I could do is gaze up in admiration. Now and then a stab of pain reminded me that I was there for reasons other than appreciating expertise, but mostly I remained in awe.
After the first few minutes, Giuseppe took up an instrument unfamiliar to me, and said “Look at that.” Me? “Yes.” Where? He pointed to an LCD screen next to the chair where my x-rays had previously been displayed. The cylinder in his hand was a camera, and the screen switched from shots of zebras and giraffes to one of my tooth. He explained what was what. Because he was wearing a full face mask – like a welder would, or riot police – whatever I might have understood was muffled beyond my ability to grasp, but the picture sure was interesting. I believe the bloodied line to the left was the predicted fracture.
They went back to work: lots of activity, many tools, liquids, routings, and twists. Occasional pain. The energy of their work had nothing in it that was overbearing or trying to prove itself. It was attentive, careful, and necessary. No apologies, no showing off, no rough behavior; just good clean care. I melted back into admiration as I watched their eyes, intensely focused.
At one point about half way through, another man came into the room. I eventually guessed he may have been Giuseppe’s lunch companion. They chatted and joked. Occasionally, when the work was routine, Giuseppe looked away and talked to his friend directly. Other people came and went, the same good energy prevailed. Then Giuseppe said something, detached, and left the final bits to the assistant.
“It was fractured,” he explained after releasing my tooth from its apron. “Giuseppe glued it back together and ground the tooth down so the fracture is less likely to reopen. We’ll check again in a few days, see if that worked. If not, then we’ll go to whatever the next best step might be.” He handed me a prescription for an antibiotic, and was off.
I wandered out to the waiting room. The dental assistant was there with her iPad. “He wants three more appointments, just in case they’re needed.” We found them stretched over the next five weeks. “Va bene, arrivederci.” Buona giornata, grazie! I wanted to bow, kiss her hand, and thank everyone in the office for being so wonderful, but they offered no opportunity. They were all off to the next thing, work as usual, and the grateful American was left standing alone surrounded by fresh, white plaster walls.
The real connection is, I guess – here, there, now, and always – between hearts and it is often silent. For this Californiano who grew up feeling that he has to be demonstratively “nice” at all times (no matter how often or how badly he fails) it is a steep lesson to learn that to shut up and be appreciative can be thanks enough.