Exploring the Brazilian Medical System, Pt. 1: A Visit to the Dentist

This week I've got a series of doctor appointments. It's my first dip into the Brazilian medical system. It's something I've been nervous about, but obviously something I've got to face.

Yesterday, I paid my first visit to the dentist.

The Dentist

I've never liked going to the dentist in any country. In the months leading up to my departure from the US, I made a list of all the things I needed to do before taking off. I gathered and submitted countless forms to get my visa, I opened a new bank account, I shopped for necessities I couldn't buy abroad. It seems nothing on the list was neglected except for going to the dentist.

In my first weeks here, I saw what looked to be a cavity digging its way into one my back chompers. I knew it was time to man up and face the music.

I asked for recommendations on a gringo Facebook group and went with a Dr. So and So. It will be my only visit to his office. Depending on the mood I'm in, it was either the best or worst dental check up I've ever had.

The office had a nice setup. All of the equipment was on par with the US of A. The doc was a nice guy, very pleasant. We wanted to know the price (I don't have dental insurance) and he said he would give an estimate after taking a look. I laid back in the chair, opened wide and, to my surprise, he said, "Your teeth look perfect!" I asked about the cavity I suspected and he said not to worry, it wasn't one.

He was ready to send me on my way right there or I could stay for a cleaning to the tune of R $350 (US $157.49). Needless to say, I was about to stand up and go, but figured I had already come all the way out and was overdo for a cleaning. So, I accepted.

That's when the professionalism took a turn for the worse. Beside my chair was a stack of DVDs that the doc could play on a wall-mounted flatscreen. It was mostly relaxing music videos, concert footage, etc. to put patients at ease. He rifled through a few, put one into the TV and adjusted the volume with the remote control.

Not a problem except for the fact he was still wearing the latex gloves he used to examine my mouth. I watched him do all this with the TV, then leave the room, return, open a few more drawers, pull out some more equipment and fiddle with some paperwork. Then, sure enough, he sat back down on his stool and was ready to go to work on me.

The remote control. Are you kidding me? You don't have to be a doctor--which he was--to know that's one of the most unsanitary items in the world and one of the last things you would ever want to touch before performing a medical procedure on someone.

"Tell him to change his gloves," I said to Dani, who was with me to translate. Embarrassedly, she did and the doc obliged, not seeming to think much of it.

With fresh gloves on, he took his tools--which only God knows the condition of--and started scraping. And scraping and scraping and scraping. And drilling. And numbing. And flossing. And polishing. And more scraping. And then more scraping again.

The cleaning took an hour and fifteen minutes. That's one and one quarter hours on just my mouth. No surgery. No braces. Just cleaning. I can only imagine how long I would've been there had my teeth not already been perfect.

I can honestly say, my teeth right now are the cleanest they've ever been. And assuming my gums don't break out into sores on account of his shady professional hygiene, it's probably the best money I've ever spent at the dentist.

And yet still, there's no way I can go back to that guy. In fact, the experience soured me to the point that it's going to take a lot to get me into another dental chair while I'm here. Unless I'm in agony, I'm holding out for the US. And even there, I still won't want to go.

As soon as I got back to our apartment, I took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide that my mom recently brought from the US, poured it into a glass and gargled my way towards the light of sanitation.