The Dental Implant In Italy

As we live in Italy part of the year, I always like to take advantage of the lower dental costs near our second home. They amount to between a quarter and a third of the going rates in the United States. Also, I believe the quality of work to be much better than that found in the United States. For me it’s a no brainer.

That being said, I made an appointment for 11:30 with my local dentist for simple filling and the opportunity to get a preventivo (estimate) for a needed dental implant and crown. As I sat down in the dreaded dental chair, a young woman walked in briskly and without a word started prepping me for the filling. To my amazement, she then proceeded to do the work without so much as a how do you do. Yikes! Who was this person?

She worked on me for an hour and a half. I protested the diga (rubber dam) as I can’t breath with one in my mouth. Somewhat offended, she asked if I had difficulty with the Italian language. My response was Spartan. “No, only with a mouthful of sharp instruments and rubber.” I actually speak better Italian than most locals. At last the work was done. Despite the loss of blood ( I am on blood thinners), the work was excellent. Then came the surprise.

My regular dentist came in. I complained to him for springing a surprise unknown on me in the form of a new dentist whom I’d never met. He apologized profusely but said she was better at fillings. Okay. Things are often done here without a lot of explanation. Then he said that his one o’clock appointment had cancelled. “How about starting the implant today?” I balked a bit but finally said, “What the hell, let’s do it.”

I have had other implants done before by the same dentist and they were no biggies. In fact in Italy they use laser drills on the bottom jaw so I was at ease. He started by making the traditional gum incision. Again, no biggie. However, he then commenced with a normal drill on the upper jaw. This was of course after doing the obligatory 3-D X-ray to assure that a geezer of my age had enough bone to drill. Okay, so far so good. Then came the mother of all surprises.

Mt dentist produced a small hammer and a pointed chisel and absolutely wailed on my upper jaw with repeated blows. Finally I got a word in edgewise. “Che cazzo fai? (What the fuck are you doing?). He didn’t answer but kept hammering away to the point I thought I would pass out or suffer a broken cranium. I swear I could feel my brain being squeezed against the top of my skull.

He finally finished and placed the implant without any problems. After stitching me up, I asked again what the hell he had done. “I had to compact the bone because it was too porous,” was the response. He apologized again and said he hadn’t had time to discuss the procedure beforehand. I have been very pleased with this dentist so I offered only a weak, “Porca Madonna!”

As I left the dentist’s office some three hours later, I stumbled toward the receptionist, who is also the dentist’s wife. “What do I owe you today,” I queried.  She laughed and said, “After what you’ve been through this afternoon, let’s talk about that later.” I reluctantly concurred and headed to the pharmacy for the prescribed antibiotics and then home for a waiting grappa.

Was the day worth saving 70% on a big dental bill? You bet your sweet ass it was!

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Read author Allen E. Rizzi’s latest books available at Amazon.com

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