A Day at the Dentist's...

Friday we returned to Korle Bu hospital for a dental bonanza. I must say, with my paralyzing fear of dentists, I was particularly happy to only be a spectator.

Our first order of business was to take my host sister Julie to the dentist. The last week, half of Mus's tooth fell out (losing teeth is a recurring nightmare of mine, so I was more freaked out than he was.) So we decided to make the trip to the dentist a double feature.

While I waited for them to finish, I did some people-watching. I've often wondered how developmentally disabled people are treated by Ghanaians as a group; I've never really had the opportunity to observe such a situation here. Granted, I've seen how the Mus's family treats Sweet Mother, but that's different since they live together. I've never seen Sweet Mother interact with strangers.

But while waiting at the dentist, I had my opportunity. There was a boy who was maybe 9 or 10 who, I would guess, has down syndrome and probably some sort of physical growth disability too, making it difficult for him to walk. His father was with him, and the dental assistant wanted to take some X rays. The boy was scared and sat down and refused to move. Then, as I watched, his father and the assistant (who was also male) tried to coax him to go to get X rays. I was amazed at the affectionate way the assistant talked to the boy, often stroking his cheek, holding his hand, or patting his head. Then the dentist came out to try and coax the boy, bribing him with toys and stickers and toothbrushes. When that didn't work, a woman who was an administrator for the hospital came and joined the coaxing. They were all very affectionate, smiling fondly at the boy, and very patient; and as far as I could tell, none of them knew the boy well. Another mother, waiting there with her child, even joined in, telling him it wasn't scary and her little girl didn't mind the dentist. Finally, the dental assistant succeeded in convincing the boy to cooperate by promising him a large green drum as a prize, and he and the boy and the father headed off to the x-ray ward, all smiles.

What made this scenario even more interesting is that, in my experience with Ghanaian medical professionals, they generally lack a comforting bedside manner. I've had a few doctors who were good at communicating, but I feel as though I've been mostly roughly handled by the medical community at large. Even when I was watching a hygienist clean Julie's teeth, I felt there was more jabbing and bleeding than I'm used to.

I've heard many reasons for this lack of bedside manner. I think it probably boils down to two things; too many patients seeing too many doctors makes them move quickly and perhaps brusquely, and doctors and nurses here are often frustrated by their small pay. This is also supported by the fact that doctors in private clinics- who are better paid and see much fewer patients- are generally thought to be more gentle.

But that fact made this interaction with the developmentally disabled boy seem even more striking and unique. They were completely patient, indulgent even.

And another funny thing happened while I waited. I was listening to my discman and drowsing on and off when I saw a man, about my age, walk in. He smiled and pointed at the seat next to me and mumbled something quietly. I nodded and he sat next to me and started reading the paper that was lying there. I turned, laying my head on the back of the bench again, to go back to drowsing and listening to the soundtrack to “Wicked.” But I kept hearing him shifting and clearing his throat behind me. I turned to glance at him, and he was quiet for awhile.

Then I felt him tap my elbow. I turned to him, taking out one of my headphones. “Uhhh, I just wanted to, umm, tell you that my name is Kwesi and I am a Ghanaian,” he stammered. He was physically shaking.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said smiling, but not offering more since I didn't really want to have a conversation. I didn't sleep well the night before and I just wanted to close my eyes.

“And what about you?”

“My name is Jessica.”

“And you're from?”

“America.”

“Oh, okay.” He seemed to either get the hint or lose his nerve. “Well, I, uh, I just wanted... wanted to tell you that...” he trailed off weakly.

A few minutes later Mus returned, sporting a puffy cheek where his half of a tooth had been. I started fussing over him, my hand on his shoulder. A moment later, the guy sitting on the other side of me stood up, set down the paper and mumbled a thanks (I think he thought the newspaper was mine, but it wasn't) and quickly left, making it quite clear that he actually had no business in the dentist's waiting room and had just come in because he had seen me sitting there.