Meron Goes to the Dentist

When we went home a few months back, a wise friend gave us some great advice. When we told him we weren’t sure how much good we were doing, that it was hard to see the fruits of our labor, he told us not to think that way. “Don’t keep asking yourself, ‘Are we making a difference?’ We can only do what we’re supposed to do, and God takes it from there. Even if you’re just doing a little, you’re doing your part, and we have no idea what God will do once you leave. But he’ll certainly continue the work you started.”

We know he’s speaking the truth. If we think along these lines, as he suggested, we’ll be more likely to remain sane, positive, realistic, honest, and humble.

I also found truth in Laura’s words to Joe, when we discussed one evening how discouraging it can be to not have much work to do at site—to have community members simply not interested in the help you want to provide. “No, no, no.” Laura said to her fiancé. “I expect you to be performing arm surgery by the time you get back! If I’m giving you up for two years, you’re going to perform miracles!” This is how many of us feel. If we’re postponing baby plans, house plans, careers (or simply getting a real paycheck), and missing out on major family events, we want to do something while we’re here. Something big.

While we find value in all our projects—and there are quite a few—there’s nothing like seeing actual good that one individual can do for another. Yes, Adwa needs English. And I know English. But we’re residents of Africa for two years. Can’t we give something other than English? Something more?

And we’ve found that thing—that “arm surgery miracle-performing” thing. In 2024, when we’re remembering our Peace Corps service and sharing it with our children, I’m sure we’ll mention our English clubs, classes, and reading programs. But we’re guessing that forefront in our minds will be our neighbors, their income, their health, and the knowledge that This was a difference we made.

* * *

A few weeks before leaving for America we were having coffee with the Girimkils. Misilal raised Meron’s upper lip for us, showed us the root of her front tooth plowing right up through her gums and touching the underside of her lip. Afraid that Meron’s tooth would continue to move that direction, Misilal put both her index fingers on her little girl’s tooth and pushed down as hard as she could. Nigoho, nigoho, she said. Every morning. Every morning, Mom pushes on Daughter’s tooth to keep it from moving upwards. We told her it had to be removed. She told us they don’t have the money. Daniel and I exchanged glances, nodded, and said we’d pay for it.

(This was the point where we ran in the house to grab some toothbrushes and toothpaste that a few of our sister-in-law Lindsay’s students sent, in a gracious box full of goodies for students.) We had a toothbrushing training right there in our yard. I brushed for them, repeating, “Komzi,” (like this), through my foam. Teeth-cleaning here is traditionally done with a pointy, green stick; they sell them on buses.

Dental appointment number one was a few days later. Misilal, Luam, Meron, Daniel, and I all piled into a single bajaj on each other’s laps and went to the hospital. We were told nothing could be done that day because Meron had to apply a disinfectant on the protruding tooth for one week. We’d be gone in six days, on our way to America, so we gave Misilal the money in advance, for the taxi, for the hospital bills, etc. The dentist—a loud, obnoxious, young man—also told us Meron would have to get all her teeth pulled, one at a time. They’re all rotten, black, and cavity-strewn, but since they’re her baby teeth, we thought they’d fall out naturally. He said they were so much decayed that they wouldn’t fall out on their own.

So, dental appointment number two we didn’t see. But we came back to a happy Meron, who still seemed to like us, and no protruding tooth. Misilal gave us the receipts, but no change. She swore up and down that the charges required the full amount we gave her, but there was a 60 birr discrepancy. New lesson: If we don’t want to get cheated in the middle of our generosity (they don’t truly realize it’s generous; they still think we’re rich), we have to take her to the dentist ourselves. No stand-ins.

Dental appointment number three was to kick-start the “removing all of Meron’s decayed teeth” program. The dentist didn’t seem to know whether or not he could give a five-year-old the same Anesthesia he gives adults. It was a mirror image of my time on a bus in Uganda some years ago, when a family of elephants was blocking our way in the road. The bus driver turned to me (because I was seated up front, and he assumed I was in charge of the 40 of us) and asked, “Is it safe?” He was asking the American if he could drive forward toward the elephants. After 10 minutes of hurried discussion, we decided no (with a small margin), and later learned from a laughing policeman, “They would’ve KILLED you!” (Note, Mama elephant was flapping her ears at us, which was the deciding factor, given one of the gal’s experience with Animal Planet.) So, fast-forward to today, and the dentist is asking me, “Is it safe?” while I’m fuming on the inside You’re the dentist! We ask him, “Well, what did you do last time?”, indicating dental appointment number two. He stares blankly.

            Later, we’re in line for one of the several unknown things we have to stand in line and pay for, and I’m praying. God, if he's going to harm her, please provide another way. I have no clue. Obviously neither does he. Take care of this. I look down at Meron, playing, seemingly unaware of her fate. We weren’t at the first appointment, so we don’t know if Anesthesia was involved. I kneel down to Meron. “Mis kali sinni, kidmi hanti warhi, himam neyru doe?” (“With your other tooth, one month ago, was there pain?” is the closest I can come to a direct question.) She shakes her head, smiling.

            The dentist decides to give the Anesthesia, and gives us a form to take to the hospital pharmacy to buy two syringes for said cause, and latex gloves. We bring them to the dentist. He puts her tiny body in the huge chair. His assistant pulls out a box of metal, scary-looking things. He’s putting on the gloves and walking towards her, but the syringes I just bought him are on the other side of the room. It’s happening way too fast. Nervously and suddenly, one of my favorite, most looked-forward-to things—going to the dentist—is becoming something horrifying. And I’m not even the one in the chair. Daniel leaves the room for fear of squirmishness. I’m alone in the room with them, deciding what to do, fast. I inch towards them—do I remind him about the Anesthesia? Do I interrupt?—I watch, hand on mouth. Meron is wiggling her tiny hands around, eyeing all around her. Looking nervous, but composed. It happens in five seconds. He puts the pliers to her mouth and I’m nearly about to scream out at him, and he starts to pull. She screams. She’s wailing, he’s tossing a tiny something into the large garbage can beside her. He puts gauze to her bleeding hole, and Wadina. We’re finished. Nearly in tears myself, I’m picking her up and soothing her.

            “What happened? Why didn't you numb her?” He says he decided last minute not to give her the adult Anesthesia. As these words leave his mouth, I’m not incensed. I’m relieved and grateful and know where it came from, his last-minute decision. He had decided on the syringes—he made me go spend 20 birr on them. I bring them back, and he ignores them without explanation. Yes, it was last minute. Something entered his mind at the last possible moment, and he took a different route. So as he told me he changed his mind, I breathed thanks to God for answering my If he’s going to harm her, provide another way prayer.

            Meron cried for two minutes. She still wanted to be held for awhile, but she was quiet and strong. We called her anbasa (lion) for the rest of the day.

Dental appointment number four was a direct contradiction to number one. We told the loud dentist that we had come to get another tooth removed. He asked why, loudly. We said you told us to. He said these were her baby teeth, and by the time she is seven, they would fall out. So why remove them? Because you told us to. Three months ago you said they were so decayed, they wouldn’t fall out naturally. They had to be pulled. He stared blankly. No. She needs fillings.

Dental appointment number five is at a real dentist’s office. Not a hospital with a general dentist on staff. He peruses her cavities, and charges 600 birr for 6 fillings. To us, to Ethiopians, this is a lot of money. Six hundred birr lasts us a long time. It’s a fifth of our monthly stipend; this same amount would pay Girimkil’s salary for a month and a half. But in dollars? Thirty-one dollars for 6 fillings.

            Misilal sits in the dentist chair this time, and Meron lies on top of her. Misilal grips tightly for the entire hour, crying at intervals for her daughter, in this single painless dental appointment for Meron. There’s a loud soap opera going on behind me as the assistant mixes powder with drops, making a paste, and the dentist scoops it up with a stick, then applies it to each tooth. It reminds me of a thick frosting, particularly the praline I put between the layers of my carrot cake (without the pecans). Now, neither Daniel nor I have had any cavities, so we don’t know how this works. We don’t know what it should look like. But it’s surprising to me that this is what fillings are made of. Paste of some kind.

            He tells me in English that she can’t eat or drink for five hours. I tell him, Don’t tell me, tell her mother in Tigrigna. This has become my most-repeated statement at each dental appointment—even when Loud Dentist told me what the cause was: either breast-feeding in the middle of the night, or breast-feeding for too many years (it was confusing). Still his instinct wasn’t to tell the obvious breast-feeder who could tell her breast-feeding friends and get the word around—he told the ferengi for her own edification. “Tell her. In Tigrigna,” we repeated. Everyone wants to show off their English.

            Filling-dentist assures us that these should last until she is seven, and then her teeth will fall out naturally.

            According to Girimkil, the whole family “guards” Meron that day, keeping her away from food and drink. I look at her mouth the next day, and the fillings, though sloppy and not in the shape of teeth, are there. A much prettier sight than gaping black holes.

           

* * *

            The story would’ve ended beautifully there. I would’ve made the essay go full circle, and underline our wise friend’s advice. This would’ve been the thing we did to help Meron and that we would look back on, knowing we were of use and made a difference. But that would’ve been too easy.

            Two months pass. We’re back from Germany. I’m sitting with Meron on our doorstep, and I give her a banana. Watching her chew makes me think to look at her teeth. She opens her mouth for me. All signs of the 600-birr fillings are gone. Gaping black holes have made a comeback.

            I go to the dentist. I give the same speech, separately, to his assistant in Tigrigna and then to him in English, when I pass him on the stairs. Note, last time I complained to a business in the states—a certain university records office—I was so nervous and “hurt” as a consumer, that I cried through the entire conversation. But when incompetence is expected and you feel you’re surrounded by it—it becomes a lot easier to yell at people who do their jobs terribly:

            Six hundred birr! We are volunteers without salaries, and that is a lot of money; we’re not rich ferengi! You said it would last until she was seven, and it lasted TWO MONTHS. Why? Is your medicine expired? I am telling everyone in Adwa what happened, and that this is a bad place, and not to come here. This is not good business.

            He said to bring her back and we would “discuss.” But we know how this works. Product quality—apparently even fillings—is low here. We buy a brand new dog collar and it’s broken next day. Twice. Our non-stick pan from Addis became our stick-pan after a few months. Brand new pens here are a one-time use deal. Sometimes, our lightbulbs last us one day. And the list goes on. (What this place needs is 3,000 of my dads spread throughout the country. Craftsmen, handymen with know-how and integrity.)

            So we won’t take her back there. We won’t bring the Girimkil family to the other side of town to argue with this dentist, and eventually agree to get the same two-month fillings at a discounted price. We can’t, we won’t.

            So the good we thought we were doing wasn’t as profound as we would’ve liked. One dangerous and protruding tooth was removed, and one cavity. She got fake fillings for two months. But she’s five, she says they don’t hurt, and when she’s seven, they should fall out.

            We did what we could, and that has to be enough. When Misilal lifted Meron’s lip to show us her impaled gums that day, we didn’t stop at “Ajokum, Igzyaber yihabkum”—Be strong, may God give to you. We had her at the dentist the next week.

            If we had to put our fingers on why we think we’re here, a good reason God directed us away from new nephews and toward strangers in the other half of the world, we’d both say it was this family. Girimkil went blind seven months before we arrived. He couldn’t work anymore; he used to be a guard and the goat-slaughterer for the community—each goat, 20 minutes, he says. He tells us often how it was before we came. He says he was sick in his mind and in his heart. He wasn’t happy or at peace; he couldn’t provide for his family’s needs. The first time this blind man asked, or rather told us, that he would be our guard, we didn’t realize that this would be our one great contribution to Adwa, that we’d be so thankful we said yes. He thanks us, and he thanks God, that his heart and mind are now happy, free of worry. He recently told us that he doesn’t know what will come after us—we leave in eight months, and what he’ll do next, Igzyaber yifalit. God knows (according to His will). What Girimkil doesn’t know, is that we’re comforting ourselves with this same thought. We don’t know in what form or increment we’ll be helping them after we leave. But we know that they are what we were here for, and God will pick up where we left off, when we leave. We know this much about our Father—this is what He does; He follows through.

            Meron will remember her five dentist appointments, strutting down the cobblestone road and entering the taxi like a queen. Part of her bravery each appointment seemed to be her pride: she was a big girl, going to the hospital. How many kids get excited to get a tooth pulled, when they had one pulled weeks before? After her second tooth was pulled, she danced around her house, giggling and taunting her brothers in Tigrigna. Girimkil explained she was trying to make them jealous, she was “rubbing it in.” She got to ride a taxi, and they didn’t. She got to go to the hospital, they didn’t. (I was thinking, You have decayed teeth, they don’t.)

            She will remember she was important, that Daniel and Danayit loved her. And the family will remember the importance we placed on dental hygiene. We at least did what we were supposed to do. And we at least felt like real Peace Corps volunteers while we were doing it.