Der Zahnarzt (the Dentist)

Today I had my second visit in seven days to the German dentist, or Zahnarzt. In my case, I went to the Zahnärztin, because my dentist is a woman. She's very nice, and she speaks a lot of English. If you need a good dentist in Germany, I'd recommend this one. 

It's funny, but Dr. Knobloch is the second medical provider out of three I've had in my short time in Germany who is named after food. Her name probably comes from the word for garlic, which is Knoblauch. Heinie's Mutter, who ventured with me both times to the dentist -- because Dr. Knobloch is her dentist as well -- agreed that garlic could be the source of the name. 

In my not-so-vast experience with German dentistry, I'd say it's pretty much like American dentists I've gone to. The waiting room and back offices are clean, and the same tools loom in front of your face while you wait to get your teeth cleaned. The only thing missing in this dentist's office were the Highlights magazines we read as kids, turning to the hidden pictures page first thing, and framed artwork adorning every wall. Also, Mutter Heinie and I had to buzz to get in the door, because the dentist works on the bottom floor of a house, or small apartment building. It also didn't smell like any dentist's offices I'd been in. It didn't smell at all. 

Sitting in the chair today for my filling -- the first I have had in over 30 years -- I relaxed. I was tired and could almost sleep. I wasn't scared. I knew it would suck no matter what, and why make it worse with worry? Besides, Germans are so efficient that I figured my treatment would be quick, easy and painless. I trusted Dr. Knobloch, because she seemed quite proficient during our first meeting, and she was pleasant. 

The dental assistant Anna turned on the radio to distract and entertain both of us while she filled my syringe with numbing agent. Anna didn't know the name of the medicine that went inside the syringe; I offered up Novocaine, but she hadn't heard of that. A song on the radio began after some German chatter, reminding me of Tom Cruise and fast jets, for it was the theme song from "Top Gun." Kenny was singing about a highway to the danger zone, and going right into the danger zone. Not the best song for sitting in a dentist's chair. 

"Maverick" flashing his pearly whites. He also has a great dentist.

My filling took quite a long time, because after all, it has been 30 years at least, and I had a cavity under the original filling. The doctor had to drill and dig and bore around my old filling, remove it, grind and bore more tooth away, and place a new filling. At her direction, I felt the hole with my tongue when she was done excavating, and it was sizable -- almost the entire expanse of the whole tooth. One of the drills she used sounded like a Motorad inside my mouth -- it was that strong and powerful. She called that one the Bohrer, which means "drill." The small drills then must have other names, like "spinning painful needle," however that is in German. 

One aviso if you go to the dentist in Germany: don't get the amalgam filling. It's supposedly harmful to your body, though it's the only type the German Versicherung will completely pay for. Order the Kunststoff fillings. They're better, ceramic, and harden with a cool blue light. 

Another warning: don't panic when the dentist comes at you with a syringe and says, "Vee haff to giff you zee injektion now." Thought it may call up memories of Dr. Szell (Laurence Olivier) in "Marathon Man" (see clip below) or Sergeant Schulz in "Hogan's Heroes," it's just how they talk. Don't let scary, old Nazi movies frighten you out of going to the dentist. Just try to relax, drift off, and let the Novocaine or whatever it is in Germany do its work.

Is it safe?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-OviftusB8

Mark Twain and the German Worker

My breaktime view of the Neckar

Lately I have been very busy with my new job in Heidelberg at a brand new primary school. Not only do I love my new workplace, but the blessings, honor and wonderful scenery are all mine when I "de-tram" at Brückenstrasse ("Bridge Street") and walk across the large bridge toward school, with views up and down the Neckar River. To my left is the castle and Altstadt, and on the right, the river winds down valley to Mannheim and beyond. I could disembark at Bismarckplatz, the busy bus and streetcar station that is much closer, but I like walking my way -- the "back" way -- better.

Heidelberg's busy Bismarckplatz

My ride to Heidelberg from Viernheim is almost an hour long, but it offers me the chance to read. Last week I began A Tramp Abroad by Mark Twain. It is delightful, and I laugh out loud reading him. He can put into words a perfect combination of sarcasm and irony, without being too insulting, and he has a unique way of analyzing the working German people of his time.

"Let this be a warning to the reader. The Germans are very conscientious, and this trait makes them very particular. Therefore if you tell a German you want a thing done immediately, he takes you at your word; he thinks you mean what you say; so he does that thing immediately -- according to his idea of immediately -- which is about a week; that is, it is a week if it refers to the building of a garment, or it is an hour and a half if it refers to the cooking of a trout. Very well; if you tell a German to send your trunk to you by "slow freight," he takes you at your word; he sends it by "slow freight," and you cannot imagine how long you will go on enlarging your admiration of the expressiveness of that phrase in the German tongue, before you get that trunk. The hair on my trunk was soft and thick and youthful, when I got it ready for shipment in Hamburg; it was baldheaded when it reached Heidelberg. However, it was still sound, that was a comfort, it was not battered in the least; the baggagemen seemed to be conscientiously careful, in Germany, of the baggage intrusted to their hands." (Chapter XX)

My experience with German Arbeiter is somewhat the same, even in these modern times. Germans have administrative processes. Unlike America, where everything is rush-rush, go-go-go, and overnighted due to extreme urgency, Germans take their time. Nothing should be rushed, because it must be done correctly. Why produce something prematurely, such as a driver's license that was promised within four weeks, before the four weeks have run out? One would not expect to receive it sooner, because one was told four weeks. Why would my Jobticket (discounted monthly tram ticket) which was submitted to the transportation authority on August 28 -- two weeks before I started work -- definitely not be mine until October 1st, though we live in the electronic age, the money has been removed from my account, the paperwork is in the right hands, and I need the ticket every day I go to work?

This is Germany. There is a required waiting time, and not because the people do not care to work. It seems to be simply a matter of prioritizing, and/or making people wait because that is what is expected.

Heinie has a garage door and metal-building business. Several of my new and good friends in Germany (one German and two Italian) have consulted him with regard to various metal needs around their homes: a kitchen stove ventilation hood, a copper pipe that will direct water away from a house on very rainy days, and several different awnings and garage doors. Because they like and trust me, they like and trust him, I think. However, there is no immediate rush to get the work done for these friends. There is some kind of required German waiting time that they should already know about. It is hard for me to comprehend or explain to these people, who have water pouring into their basements on rainy weeks and the haze of smoke from frying Schnitzel attaching itself to their kitchen ceilings. Heinie cannot be bothered, though I make gentle suggestions at least twice a week for him not to forget about my friends' problems. He always has much bigger jobs to accomplish first -- jobs that have materialized from thin air; jobs that were ordered months before.

Couldn't a person finish a small job immediately in order to tackle a larger, newer job later? Wouldn't there be less stress if you finished the small things and made your friends happy, so they can tell their friends? I do not know, I am not a German businessman. However, in my world, annoying tasks can be handled quickly and thus less painfully. And I am a procrastinator.

In the southwestern United States, there is the opinion and longstanding stereotype that Mexicans are lazy and take naps in the middle of the day, under a saguaro cactus, if one is nearby. In my many years experience working with mexicanos at the restaurant and in other occupations, I found that they are on the job earlier, paid less, and work longer hours, at crappier jobs. They are very hardworking people, for the most part. Though they cannot be rushed, Germans are hardworking, too. Or perhaps it is just the women that seem a bit more diligent.

Twain wrote about that, too, telling how male bystanders on the river stepped aboard their raft often, but the women did not have time.

"Only the men did this; the women were too busy. The women do all kinds of work on the continent. They dig, they hoe, they reap, they sow, they bear monstrous burdens on their backs, they shove similar ones long distances on wheelbarrows, they drag the cart when there is no dog or lean cow to drag it, -- and when there is, they assist the dog or cow. Age is not matter, -- the older the woman, the stronger she is, apparently. On the farm a woman's duties are not defined, -- she does a little of everything; but in the towns it is different, there she only does certain things, the men do the rest. For instance, a hotel chambermaid has nothing to do but make beds and fires in fifty or sixty rooms, bring towels and candles, and fetch several tons of water up several flights of stairs, a hundred pounds at a time, in prodigious metal pitchers. She does not have to work more than eighteen or twenty hours a day, and she can always get down on her knees and scrub the floors of halls and closets when she is tired and needs a rest" (Chapter XV).

My best German friend Dana started a new job in April, working 10 to 12 hours a day, and often on Saturdays. She mostly sleeps on Sunday, so you should not attempt to rouse her, and I don't. She won't answer. She takes the Day of Rest quite seriously. But poor Dana hardly gets to see her boyfriend, and she still has to keep a clean house and manage all the other duties living requires, such as grocery shopping, meeting up with friends, tending to her family, etc. Is it worth it? Well, she bought ice cream the last time we were together, so her job is paying off in more ways than one, but I don't understand how she does it. Perhaps one of her best friends today is Mr. Coffee.

Am I spoiled? Do I get paid enough to work 12 hours a day for weeks at a time? No. Perhaps occasionally I must, and it is worth it for one of my employers (who pays hourly). Otherwise, life is too short and I cannot be counted on to be so diligent and fleissig like many Germans are. I try not to worry that much. Thank goodness my great new job gives me this flexible schedule so I can stay home some mornings, sit at the computer, and write (like Mark Twain) about how hard the Germans work. 

Wörterbuch
Arbeiter - worker(s)
Brücke - bridge
fleißig - industrious, hardworking
Straße - street

Note: The German language has a double "s", or ess-tset: ß. Do not mistake it for a B. It is simply two S's put together into one letter, for efficiency. 


If you need more evidence about hardworking Germans, there is an old children's song to teach the young ones about hard work and who must do it:

Refrain:
Wer will fleißige Handwerker seh'n?
Ei, der muss zu uns hergeh'n!

1. Stein auf Stein, Stein auf Stein,
das Häuschen wird bald fertig sein.

Refrain

2. O wie fein, o wie fein,
der Glaser setzt die Scheiben ein.

Refrain

3. Tauchet ein, tauchet ein,
der Maler streicht die Wände ein.

Refrain

4. Zisch, zisch, zisch; zisch, zisch, zisch;
der Schreiner hobelt glatt den Tisch.

Refrain

5. Poch, poch, poch; poch, poch, poch;
der Schuster schustert zu das Loch.

Refrain

6. Stich, stich, stich; stich, stich, stich;
der Schneider näht ein Kleid für mich.

Refrain

7. Tripp, trapp, drein, tripp, trapp, drein,
jetzt geh'n wir von der Arbeit heim.

Refrain

8. Hopp, hopp, hopp; hopp, hopp, hopp;
jetzt tanzen alle im Galopp. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i63doTso8FY

Der Arzt (the Doctor), Part I

Recently while jogging in the park, I took a spill and earned myself a nasty scrape on the front of my right calf. My hand was also cut. There were small rocks and other unsightly things embedded into my skin. It was plain ugly.

Due to my emotional state at the time and the pain that I had imposed upon my person while fighting to stay in the best shape I can -- despite all the good German bread, chocolate, and pork sausage I consume -- I cried all the way home. Sadly, no Germans that passed me on the street stopped to help or ask the reason for my suffering. Ein Polizist drove by, and I hoped that perhaps he, as a protector of the community, might be curious about my pain and tears, and maybe even drive me the rest of the way home. 

Boy, wouldn't that make for a good story?! But did he stop? Nah. 

I cried even harder. 

Yes, I am melodramatic sometimes, but I wanted some tender, loving care!

At home, the response was only slightly better than that given me by the other Germans I had encountered so far that day, so I treated my own injuries. Having smuggled two bottles of hydrogen peroxide from the States (in Germany, Wasserstoff Peroxide is expensive and only available in pharmacies), I poured some of the precious liquid over my dirty hand and leg, watching the wounds bubble and foam. Having worked in a doctor's office, I learned that hydrogen peroxide can be used to to clean, dissolve blood spatters and stains, and perform other minor miracles.

Five days later, the wounds were healing well, but I began having another problem. The skin below my ankle was becoming warm and painful, as if there was an infection under the skin. It was obvious I should go to the doctor.

On a Sunday morning after a good cup of coffee, I was transported to the Krankenhaus in Viernheim, which is more like a walk-in clinic. There were no loud ambulances pulling in; there were no uniformed men in green pushing stretchers; there were no white-robed nurses or doctors rushing from room to room, stethoscopes around their necks. In fact, no one else in the whole town of Viernheim was having any kind of medical emergency -- at least not there -- because I was the only one waiting in the sanitary corridors. After I walked in, a Frau behind the glass at the entrance signaled to another Frau behind closed doors. The second Frau came out and took my insurance card, asking who my Hausarzt was. Because I didn't understand what that meant, I deferred to my German translator/driver to answer. 

One great thing about Germany is that with your health insurance card, you pay nothing. Previously, there was a 10-euro copay, but that requirement has been eradicated in recent months. When you hand over your insurance card, the German computers automatically know where you live, and a small form prints out for the doctors to write on.

While we waited in the corridor, Sunday morning mass was going on in the Catholic hospital chapel. The pipe or electronic organ must have been right by the door where we sat, because I could hear it clearly. I meant to go look at it, having been raised by a family of church organists, but I was so filled with wonder after my doctor visit, I forgot. 

Within short minutes, we were ushered into the office of the doctor on duty -- Dr. Wurst ("sausage"). He was the only one there. No one took my blood pressure or weighed me. My body temperature was not a concern either. There was no examining table, no medical assistant, no nurse -- nichts. I sat down in a chair by his desk and held up my leg with my hands. Dr. Wurst, who also spoke some English, looked at my wound, made the proper recommendations, treated it with some cold liquid squirted onto a bandage, and wrote out an antibiotic prescription to take to the nearest open pharmacy. We would have to drive several kilometers, because on Sundays in Germany, most businesses are closed. 

The doctor was an intelligent man (as most doctors are). In answer to my questions regarding emergency health care in Germany, he gave interesting responses. 

He told me that in most of Europe there are emergency doctors that travel to the scenes of accidents, fires, etc. In Germany, such a doctor is called a Notarzt. That doctor has everything he needs to stabilize a patient at the scene of the accident.  Notärzte are just as prevalent as firemen and EMTs, and they drive orange and white emergency vehicles with sirens and flashing lights. These types of doctors sit and wait just to be called out, like paramedics in the USA, and handle  between 5 to 15 accidents/calls per shift. 

In America, there are oftentimes greater distances between injury victims and the hospital. Dr. Wurst told me that paramedics and EMTs are trained to prep patients for travel, and get them on the road to the hospital as soon as possible. In Europe, the emergency doctors treat victims at the scene until they are stable enough to travel, because there are hospitals closeby. 

Therefore, emergency room doctors do not exist, as a specialty, at least not in the smaller hospitals such as the one in Viernheim. The doctor that saw me was the only one in the hospital, a doctor from a practice of 15 that work in Viernheim and Lampertheim (a neighboring city). He said that in a city of 30,000 or less people, one doctor is always on duty in a hospital, so a city with more than 30,000 will have two doctors available, and so on. 

I got an education from Dr. Wurst, and he sent me on my way, telling me to visit my Hausarzt the next day for follow-up. 



Dictionary
Frau - woman
Hausarzt  - family physician
Krankenhaus - hospital
nichts - nothing
Notarzt - emergency physician (plural - Notärzte)
Polizist - policeman
Wasserstoff Peroxide  - hydrogen peroxide
Wurst  - sausage