A visit to the Sw-entist
Dentists are not covered by Swiss health insurance, perhaps a contributing factor to the details of this experience...
I had been avoiding it. I hate the dentist at the best of times, having not a single tooth that has not been the recipient of some filling or root canal or other entirely unpleasant dental nightmare. One of my front teeth is even fake! For those with less acidic saliva: Did you know that fillings have an expiration date, and you can need them drilled out and then replaced years later? Good God, will the delights of aging never end??!?
I admit, because I have aged wisdom-wise, and as an adult I pay for all this dental work, I did visit a border dentist about a year-and-a-half ago. It seemed like something kind and responsible I could do for myself when things were otherwise really sucking. The border dentist, you ask? Why, yes. Let me explain.
Despite its good health insurance—ridiculously expensive at about $1000/month for our family, but highly subsidized for those who can’t afford it, Switzerland does not include dental work in its coverage. That’s right, all tooth trauma must be funded out-of-pocket. Hardly a motivator for prophylactic care. This is why tons of German dentists advertise all over Basel’s public transit: Come get a better smile at our fashionable border dental clinic!, only ten minutes away!, where we service your mouth for reasonable prices! Coupons even arrive in your mailbox. So, I went in March 2023. The office was very white, all the walls and vinyl and dentists, with not even a piece of hotel-style artwork to combat the sterility. The young, trim dentist told me I would need five fillings replaced more-or-less immediately, or I would probably graduate to dentures by December. At least that is what his prognosis felt like, so I made my first follow-up appointment and promptly never went back. (I am still incapable of defiance to authority in the moment. I wonder if I will ever be able to stand up for myself on time.)
Fast forward to last Friday. Determined to avoid the dentures, as I can really only handle one part of my body express-aging at once (see: facial wrinkles), I made an appointment at the dentist recommended by my lovely Swiss neighbor. Not only is their office NOT all the way to Germany*, it is a mere five-minute bike ride down the street. Plus, this recommended Swiss dentist is named Dr. Läderach, which is utterly delightful given that Switzerland’s most delicious chocolate is made by another Läderach. A dentist with a sense of humor! Sold.
*Funny thing—I just realized that despite its border being even closer, France’s dentists have not taken up the border clinic business. There is cheap bubbly crémant d'Alsace at the border winery, and some truly lovely pâté en croûte at the border butcher…but no smile stealers. Mais oui! Gotta love French entrepreneurial priorities!
As I bike up, I see that the office is at the corner of a main drag and Feierabend Strasse. In German, “feierabend” means “happy hour.” A spring sprung in my step! Props to Basel for allowing such a street name. This is particularly unexpected in a country where most street names celebrate famous Swiss locales, historic moments, or their one war General—and baby names must be approved by the government. Yet my new dentist has found an office at the corner of sweet-tooth and after-work booze! Perhaps I would get to swish mint-flavored crémant?
The office is pretty. Like all of our Swiss medical practitioners’ walls, these walls are bedecked by nice—actually art-you-would-hang-in-your-living-room nice—paintings. Our pediatrician even has some hard wooden chairs in his waiting room that would make more sense at my Cameroonian friend’s import store. (Nothing like a three-year-old to prioritize stylish teak folklore over comfort!) Everything else in this waiting room is white and professional, yet it feels inviting nonetheless. I sit down and admire a flowery wood-block print, then notice in side table’s business card holder that all four of the practice’s the dentists seem to be women. I smile.
I am soon called to the examination room, which has more exquisite art reproductions—including a highly-textured print entitled “animals from Arizona.” The javelina and I both find it charming that the U.S.-requisite dental office fish tank is conspicuously absent, and instead we can appreciate a full-wall view into window boxes overflowing with purple petunias and the green garden beneath.
It turns out that my dentist is not the fêted Läderach, but one Dr. Baumann. She is lovely nonetheless: In our first five minutes together, she compliments my German, even after I ask her to please speak in English because I am not sure I will comprehend the details of dental tribulations auf Deutsch. She chit-chats like a hairdresser, takes some x-rays, then begins the exam.
First, she asks me about my oral hygiene history. Because I have been trained via years of condescending lectures from the dental hygienist, I promptly supply that I brush with an electric toothbrush twice a day and floss nightly. “Good!” she laughs. Thn she starts to gently scrape some plaque off my teeth and the goes back to asking me about my children. Wait—no chastizing? And she is doing the cleaning? And without an electric-water-flosser or prescription toothpaste upsell? I wait for it. But, no. Soon, seemingly hours before such a scraping job would end in the U.S.—and long before all of my gums are bleeding and I am mentally cursing her wretched profession—she says, “I see a small shadow on your x-ray. I would replace this filling. Shall I do it now?”
Now?? You mean, at this time that is convenient to me and not in a month? Yes?
“I think I can do this without anesthesia,” she continues, “but you can raise your hand if you feel pain.” This gives me pause. I have never, EVER had one of my sixteen-thousand dental procedures without first being molested by the novocaine needle. But when in Switzerland…
“Um, OK?” I squeak.
As soon as I clock that horrible drill whizz, I am sure I have made a terrible decision. But…it’s OK! I keep waiting for shooting, paralyzing pain. But none comes. I do feel a little bit, but it’s no worse than with anesthesia. I can barely believe this. The worst bit comes when Dr. Baumann has to put in the filling, and she shoves that metal ring and toothpick-thingy in between my fully-feeling gums. But I take a deep breath, and all is right with the world. As she pokes around with filling paste, I begin to daydream: How much do U.S. dentists get to charge per new appointment? And for each shot of novocaine? Are most U.S. dental hygienists such cleaning sadists because they have something to prove? And what image will AI come up with when I write a post about this, and put “pleasant” in the prompt?
And then it’s done, and everyone is smiling. Dr. Baumann says I can come back in a year, and wishes me a lovely day. I practically float out to reception, where I am told my bill will come later. That will be a fun addendum to what I have now called a pleasant experience—how much will this have cost me?!? At the very least, Swiss dental work is tax deductible.
I put on my bike helmet, and mount my bike for a pleasant, if drizzly, ride home. As I push off, I see the Feierabend Strasse sign again, and decide I will have Dan make me a cocktail when I get back. It hardly matters that it is 11:30am, as he works from home on Fridays and I don’t work at all: 80% jobs are all the rage in modern socialism. Plus, I can even have bar snacks with my drink, because despite being post-filling, I have full functioning jaw muscles. I won’t bite off my tongue from after effects of anesthesia! Bring on the honey-roasted peanuts and the Swiss Kiss!