Education at the Korean Dentist

Now, not all Korean dental offices may be as educational, service-oriented, or reasonably priced as what we experienced recently, but if this is the standard, count me IN.
We've already grown to really enjoy and trust our orthodontist (see previous post): Dr. Kim's smile, twinkly eyes, timid (but capable) English, and prominent "Maximum Emotional Service" signs about the office are quite endearing. Elisabeth's earlier x-rays had shown a couple of permanent teeth ready to move in, but the baby teeth's (tooth's? toothes?) roots were not giving way. So after a recent office visit, Dr. Kim the orthodontist sent us upstairs to the dentist for a tooth extraction.

When we arrived at the brand-new dental clinic, it was nigh unto bursting with bouncing, shouting little people rolling down brightly-colored vinyl bleachers, quite ignoring the shiny new board books and the giant TV.  A veritable herd of women also occupied the reception/waiting area: some were mothers, occasionally shouting at the kids; some were dental nurses/hygienists in lavender uniforms; and some seemed to be dental students, dressed identically in tacky uniforms that may have been worn by low-budget airline attendants 30+ years ago. 

As we approached the reception desk, every adult turned to stare. There is something about being a rare white person, turning heads whenever we're in public, of which one could grow fond. I confidently strode to the counter, smiled brightly, bowed slightly, and said, "Ay-leesh-ah-bay-tah Lahn-teen-gah?" in Korean-accented English while pointing to Elisabeth.  The woman nodded, smiled back, and handed me two forms to complete, both in Korean. I pointed at them and shrugged helplessly, again with a big smile; she pointed to a line on one form and asked me something, but in response to my blank look (and dumb smile) she took back the forms and just waved us to the cushy vinyl seats. It occurred to me that I was acting just like the stereotypical Asians on TV from 30+ years ago: bowing, smiling, blank looks.  Oh. 

Sitting now, trying to tune out the noisy kids ricocheting off the walls and each other on the cushy playground area, I watched the mighty-sized Samsung TV. We couldn't understand the show's young man, dressed for fishing, or his life-sized plush orange friend (a tele-tubby knock-off?), but we could follow the basic idea: showing a group of adorable Korean kids the varied creatures in the low-tide zone.  After delightedly catching some crabs in their (of course) gloved hands, the kids and the host/fisherman laughingly dabbed each others' faces with the gooey gray silt (the plushie must have been contractually exempted from dirty play). I was impressed with their self-restraint: my own kids would have definitely engaged in muddy stomping and smooshing and hurling.

Then, amid all this near-dainty play, the plushie turned its sizable bum to the camera and...farted. Many times. Accompanied by canned children's laughter. And cloud graphics that visually depicted the gaseous fumes--sometimes white, sometimes green, sometimes turning into butterflies.  I fear that my mouth hung open, perhaps indicating that sudden agony within needed urgent dental attention. I was stunned; none of the Koreans even seemed to notice. The show blessedly cut to a commercial, and my mouth closed as I began processing what I had just seen.  And then, in the ad, other cartoon-ish characters farted.  To more canned laughter.

I had no idea Korean culture was so open (celebratory?) about this bodily function that Americans (exempting males aged 2-25) go to great pains to conceal.  Who would have predicted that I would gain this distressing cultural knowledge while sitting in a shiny-new dentist's office?  Not able to let it rest, when I got home, I consulted my research assistants (ok, Google and Youtube), who informed me that Korean culture not only thinks farting is funny, but Korea sells farting dolls. I kid you not: see the ad here, (the dolly comes complete with smiling poop in her port-a-potty).  I know that Americans have peeing and pooping dolls, but that's weird, too.

Well, to my great relief, Elisabeth was motioned back to the patient room (picture it: nurse/hygienist prances into waiting room, extends arm at near-shoulder height, flaps limp hand at us while smiling a small, nervous smile). We quickly discovered that the dental nurses knew even less English that show at the orthodontist, and we hadn't brought a translator. After trying to communicate a few times, one nurse got a book apparently written for just such a situation (the title might or might not have been "Speaking Dentist to Stupid Foreigners Who Won't or Can't Speak Korean").  She looked up key dental phrases and read the English translation out loud for me: "You have an x-ray?" (no - it's on the computer from the orthodontist; she quickly pulls it up on this amazing system). "We will pull tooth now. We will give to her, ah, on..onesh..onesh thesha?"  She pointed to the word and I slowly pronounced "anesthesia" a few times to help her learn it. I don't think that bit of education was on her to-do list for the day, but there you have it.

I then tried to explain (ok, pantomime) Elisabeth's great fear of needles (years ago, an ER doctor didn't wait for the local anesthesia to kick in before putting stitches in her chin).  I gestured hopefully to the nitrous oxide system in the corner.  No, no, she motioned, making the classic "X" sign with her index fingers. Two shots, no gas.  Darn.  Elisabeth was shaking with fear, so I was pleased that the nurse applied a liberal amount of numbing cream around the tooth and waited several long minutes for it to take effect.  Then she rolled a small machine over by Elisabeth head; she attached a narrow, flexible tube to the machine and the other end to a small needle.  She gently slid the needle into Elisabeth's gum and held it still for two minutes while the machine delivered the anesthetic; she repeated this on the other side of the tooth.  To our great surprise, Elisabeth didn't feel a thing.  She watched the needle go in, knew it was in her jaw for a few minutes, and it didn't hurt.  And just like that, she lost her fear of needles. It was a wonderful moment.

People began gathering in the small room: another nurse came in; at least four students shyly distributed themselves around the walls, peeking at me and staring at Elisabeth; then the dentist strode in.  He was apparently the only male on staff, and it appeared that he was so important he didn't even need to speak to anyone.  He sat on the rolling stool by Elisabeth's head, grabbed a pair of shiny pliers, pulled the tooth and popped it into a tiny plastic case that a nurse handed me, and then left the room.  One minute. Hardly long enough for the poor students to crane their necks or for me to practice my Korean greeting and American smile.

So our half hour adventure included learning an important aspect of Korean culture, educating a nurse about a key dental word in English, overcoming a needle phobia and getting a tooth pull.  Just how much do you think we paid?  Come on, guess. Nope, you're wrong. We paid 7200 won ($7.05). Less than you'd pay for a movie (or a bucket of popcorn).  Now that's a good deal.  :)