Roots...

The pressure steadily increased. My jaw started to throb. It felt like my tooth was about to explode.

The pressure had to be released somehow.

After a week of a complicated root canal treatment, I lay exhausted in my bed. I knew the pain wouldn’t go away. The pressure had to be released. The temporary filling had to be opened.

It wasn’t too late yet. Around 9 p.m., I grabbed my smartphone and searched for emergency dental services in Vienna. After finding an address nearby, I set out on my way.

The practice was in an old building and, clearly, had seen better days. It smelled slightly musty.

No matter, the pain had to stop. I started filling out the patient form.

Should I write it down?

“Chronic illnesses?” Check.

HIV.

I used to always feel uneasy. “Should I write it down? Do I have to say it?”

Whether out of defiance, pride in how well I now managed my HIV infection, or simply because there could be interactions with my HIV medication—I wrote “HIV” in the field. By now, I was so used to disclosing my status that I didn’t give it a second thought.

There wasn’t much going on that evening. Not even a handful of other patients sat in the waiting room, visibly in pain, their hands on their cheeks. The yellowish lights made the practice look even older than it was.

After just a few minutes, I was unexpectedly called into the treatment room.

The assistants stood around the old dentist, all looking concerned.

“Mr. Klettermayer!” the dentist said politely but nervously. “What can we do here? Well, you know, right? I want to help you, but I have to think about the other patients too. You never know!”

At first, I was perplexed. “Uh... yes...? What do you mean?”

“Well,” said the dentist, squirming, “you never know! You understand, I want to help you. I’m obligated to, you know?”

Then it dawned on me what he meant. But he obviously didn’t have the courage to say the three letters out loud.

“You mean because of HIV?”

“Well, yes, exactly! I’d have to disinfect the entire operating unit. We’re an emergency station, and that would mean the other patients would have to wait even longer. You know how it is, you never know!”

His slightly squeaky voice trembled. He seemed embarrassed. “Well, why are you here anyway? What needs to be done? Maybe we can figure something out.”

I started laughing. I couldn’t believe what the man was saying, but I still began explaining the story of my root canal treatment.

“In the end, the tooth just needs to be drilled open. The temporary filling removed. That’s all,” I said.

My eyes fell on my patient form. Someone had written “HIV!” in huge letters with a red pen.

He thought for a moment, his eyes pleading with the dental assistants for help.

Out of his mouth came slimy, pseudo-polite reassurances, as if he were overcompensating for his discomfort, explaining how much he wanted to help me and how he was obligated to do so.

“You know, it’s really not that hard. It shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll just operate in the other room, in the other unit.”

He kept talking and talking, probably to cover up his unease, as he instructed the assistants to prepare the other operating unit.

Part of me wanted to scream, to call him out and tell him how ridiculous and unacceptable his behavior was.

But on the other hand, I was exhausted and trembling in pain. I just wanted to get it over with. I was at his mercy.

His fear of me, however, worked in my favor. Less than ten minutes later, I was called back in. Just as much as I wanted to be pain-free, the dentist seemed eager to get me out of his practice.

I sat in the chair, and we began. No assistant was present. And as the little drill screeched loudly into my tooth, he repeated his ridiculous statements over and over.

“You never know! You surely understand that! You probably know more about it than I do, right?! You see, I’d also have to disinfect the X-ray machine—you never know!”

The filling opened up. The pressure was immediately released—along with the pain. I was relieved.

“There! That’s it!” he said loudly. A disgusting, self-satisfied smile spread across his face—he was obviously proud of himself for being such a helpful, caring dentist.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Much better, thank you,” I muttered politely.

We didn’t shake hands. He could probably tell I found his behavior ridiculous and offensive.

Had I not been so exhausted, I would have liked to say something, but I genuinely didn’t know what. I was speechless.

I received a prescription for painkillers and took one last look at my patient form with the big red letters “H I V!”

The situation stuck with me the next day. I kept thinking that I should have done more. Educated him more, pushed back more, stood my ground more.

At least I had been treated. Had he refused, I would have fought back, would have insisted on being treated. But only because I’ve learned to deal with my HIV status.

But what if I still felt ashamed of having HIV? What if I were embarrassed? What if it made me insecure, and I was less articulate? Would I have been sent away then? Would they have refused to treat me?

I’m certain: If it hadn’t been an emergency night shift, the dentist would have sent me away.

What was I supposed to do? I had to fly to Barcelona for a photo assignment the next day and hadn’t prepared anything yet. So, I did the only thing I could: I contacted the HIV advocacy organization’s discrimination office and asked if they could send the dentist and his assistants some informational brochures about the current knowledge on HIV.

From what I heard, they were received. I hope they were read, too. You never know...