The Dentist of Zagreb

I’ve found my peace.

No patients, no traffic jams, no pills—just daily mindfulness and meditation. I’m living proof that doctors can change. You can choose a different path if you take control of your life.

The 11 AM church bell rings, marking the start of my day. I live under the shadow of a medieval cathedral in a beautiful, walkable European city.

I finish my Asanas and prepare to step outside for a leisurely day of total freedom.

Mobile in hand, I stroll Ben Jelacic Square, searching for a new lunch spot. The streets are covered with graffiti, yet Zagreb is one of the safest cities in Europe. Something I discovered on Nomad List, and what drew me here. If you were going to take a timeout from life, where would you go? My advice: Croatia is not a bad place to start.

People on Reddit say Croatia still follows the old Soviet model—police take collect bribes from organized crime, and they work together to keep the streets safe. Refugees from other places get quickly shuffled off for places further West.

Here I pay my landlord, Dimitri, $3,000 a month—a ridiculous amount in Zagreb that’s barely enough for a studio in LA. In return, and he greases the right palms to simplify my life. Soon, he says, he’ll find me a job (one I won’t have to go to) to fix my visa issue permanently.

From my back window, I spot an Asian man rummaging through a garbage bin. I consider calling Dimitri to have him picked up, but the police might cause more trouble than they solve. I’m anonymous here—gone without a trace. After my rhinoplasty and jaw sculpting, no one from California would recognize me on the street.

The one American I know in Zagreb, James, calls. “I’m at the club, come over.”

I’m not very keen on partying at noon, but I haven’t talked to anyone in a week, so I agree. “Be there in fifteen,” I tell him.

When I enter the dingy bar on a second floor above Tkalciceva Street, James is nursing a beer, flanked by three slightly bored-looking Ukrainian women. He introduces them with a lustful sparkle in his eye. Despite having performed hundreds of gender-affirming surgeries in Chicago, he’s the most heterosexual man I’ve ever met.

“So why are you here?” he asks. “In Croatia.”

“The weather’s nice,” I reply.

He glances at the overcast skies, gloomily reminiscent of Septembers in Ohio where I grew up..

“And I’m taking a break from medicine.”

“So, malpractice. If you live overseas, the chickens never come home to roost,” he quips. “Too far to fly!”

He laughs at his own joke, and I smile politely.

We down drink after drink as James shares increasingly raunchy stories of threesomes and foursomes. It feels pointless, but after weeks of loneliness, I feel like I have nothing to lose. Maybe I should loosen up a bit. A few hours later, it’s clear James has had too much to drink.

He grabs Fiona’s cheeks and declares, “With your big nose, you should get this man to fix it.” He points at me.

I don’t want to talk about plastic surgery, but the sales instinct kicks in. “If you shave your septum and tweak the edges, you will look like a supermodel. Think Melania.”

Fiona doesn’t buy it.

James pays for the next round, and we keep drinking into the night. I’m careful to watch my glass—I've heard stories of lonely men getting roofied and robbed, or worse.

At midnight, I head home. Outside my building, I see the same Asian man lingering. I brush past quickly, relieved to hear the reception door click shut behind me. Maybe the man is waiting for someone else. I realize he can see the elevator through the glass, so I hit the 3rd floor button and walk up the stairs to the 5th as a precaution.

The Next Day

After ten hours of deep sleep, I wake up feeling refreshed. I lied—I didn’t drink much last night. A life hack I’ve learned— alcoholics like James don’t notice when others sip as they drown themselves.

I decide to explore a new part of Zagreb today. I buy a train ticker to Sisek. On the tram, I listen to a Lex Fridman podcast. Who would’ve thought a Russian computer scientist would make an American ex-surgeon feel at home in Croatia? Today’s guest is Pieter Levels, creator of Hoodsmap, which has been my guide to the city, showing me which areas are posh or sketchy, even if they all seem pretty uniform to me.

“Constraints make life fun,” Pieter says. “Freedom is the most depressing thing there is.” Most of my life has been about escaping constraints.

My phone buzzes with a Google Calendar reminder.

#12 month checkup for Ji-Yeon Lee (rhinoplasty).

I delete it.

“You’re getting everything you ever wanted,” I remember telling her the day of her operation, right after I dropped my scalpel. Andrea brusquely swabbed her sutures with alcohol. After a long day in the OR, we were exhausted and ready to go home.

“The local anesthetic should wear off in a few hours. You might feel some discomfort,” I tokd her.

Her eyes widened with panic.

I handed her a prescription bottle. “If it hurts, take these.” Twenty-one Percocets. Enough to keep her numb for a week.

“Just remember, pain is normal. It’s part of life.”

I quickly moved on, updating the clinic’s Snap and Insta accounts with the day's work, and popped a beta blocker to calm my nerves before the drive home. Andrea set up $3,700 in unnecessary follow-up tests, reminding her to come back the next week. My RealSelf rating was stuck at 4.4, and I was struggling to keep up with my Santa Monica condo payments.

Who would have guessed that simple procedure would lead to months of malpractice investigations?

As the train arrives in Sisek, I snap out of my daydream, all a distant memory. I proceed down the small city’s streets towards the picturesque Old Castle. Thr streets feel desolate. I pass vacant houses, remnants of the aftermath of the Serbian-Croat war, and houses damaged by the recent Petrinja earthquake. None of the damage is being repaired. The town is dying.

When I reach the Old Castle, it’s closed due to earthquake damage. With nothing else to do I turn around. On my way back to the train station, I spot the only sign of activity yet in this town–a cacophony of voices and music spilling from a bar. I wander in and order a beer. The scene feels totally ordinary, 80s rock music and beer on tap, like any blue-collar bar in Middle America. Surrounded by happy people speaking an alien language of which I’m not a part, I feel utterly alone.

I realize I’m depressed.

I text James: “Not much to see in Sisek.”

“Come join me at the club,” he replies.

“I’ll be fine on my own. Say hi to Fiona.”

“Good news. Fiona found a plastic surgeon in Zagreb to fix her nose. I’ll pay for it if she moves in with me.”

I want to tell her to avoid all plastic surgery, no matter what.

“Good for you,” I text James.

After I arrive home, I ponder yet another day of total freedom that stretches ahead of me tomorrow.

Have my past sins caught up with me? How many people have I hurt? Every patient feels pain—it's part of surgery. Some have died afterwards. Suicide is just a part of life, right? Not necessarily caused by the surgery. 

Dad wanted me to be a dentist like him. I wonder if it's too late to start over at 45. I should look into it.

Peering through the curtains, I see the Asian man downstairs on the street again. He’s wearing a surgical mask, but I recognize his stooped posture and shuffling gait. 

I know the type: an angry father, a brother, or a husband.

Why not? On a whim, I walk down the stairs, step outside, and head toward the shop several blocks away. The street is empty at midnight.

Behind me, footsteps echo. A voice says, “Pain is normal. A normal part of life.”

I knew this day would come.