Creative Nonfiction Marjorie Papa
Necessary Evil
I walk up the flight of worn-carpeted steps to the second floor. Before I even open the door to the suite, the smell hits me. It is a distinct smell like no other…and one which everybody knows, that literally smells the same to all who come upon it. It has the ability to set me into a panic if I smell that smell in a place that is nowhere near or even similar to this place I am now entering. I could be doing something ordinary like shopping for groceries and smell “it” and break into a brief but tangible cold sweat.
I walk in and smile at the receptionist, who greets me by name and tells me to have a seat, I’ll be seen in a minute. I pick up a magazine, but don’t really see anything on the pages because I’m focused on my senses of hearing and smell at the moment. Not even the latest celebrity news and gossip that I hold in my hands can even gain my attention right now. Did I say focused? Overwhelmed is the more appropriate word. And if I’m really being honest, there is a twinge of fear. Fear of the known…which at a time like this seems as frightening as fear of the unknown.
Along with that off-putting smell comes that off-putting sound. Let me clarify this, first: I call it “that smell” because that is the only way I know how to refer to it. I really don’t know exactly what it is. Definitely chemical…but what the components are that exactly make it up I have no clue. Nor do I want to. I don’t even know exactly what useful purpose it serves while it’s anywhere near me or my mouth. Nor do I want to.
As for that sound…it’s unmistakable and not to be ignored. Amid all that goes on at once in this small suite – the phone ringing, the drone of the television to the left, the murmur of 101.5 fm radio station coming from the speakers in the ceilings, even the low conversations taking place in the rooms just out of my view – I can hear that distinguishable and undeniable sound, penetrating through it all. That high-pitched whirring and buzzing noise that sounds like a mosquito was given a loudspeaker by my ear and has the ability to pierce through me…and remind me of what awaits me.
That dreaded instrument. It astounds me how much pain a tool of this size can cause. The pain that I’m not supposed to feel but I manage to anyway. Wasn’t that “just a little pinch” I felt every single bit of a few minutes ago supposed to take care of the whole “not feeling a thing” I’m supposed to not feel now?! I realize it must seem like the needle took effect since I can feel the drool pooling in my neck…but the truth is clear when I try to gurgle the word “oww” and my body stiffens on its own: the novocaine is not doing its job.
And this is where I should change the direction of thoughts. If I don’t, I run the risk of saying I’ll call and reschedule another time. Hopefully it’s just one tooth this time. I’m getting too used to it being one – oh and the one next to it is cracked or chipped or a cavity we must have missed. It is necessary to change my line of thinking so as not to go into “fight or flight mode.”
Which gets me to wondering about that…the sense of fear that stirs up this “fight or flight mode.” Why is a place like this able to conjure up such a strong sense of fear? And it is fear…why else would I feel like I should either stay and fight through this or take flight and get myself out of here. Is it because there is a sense of loss of control? Yes, I know I can take action to fight germs and bacteria, and not eat so much candy, and wear my mouth-guard at night so I don’t clench my teeth…but even if I were to be faithful in all of that I still feel powerless. I have no control of the ultimate outcome – and I like to rank myself among those who would like to wield control.
If we have to lack control, it seems we should also lack pain. But pain comes with the territory. Those teeny little nerves can bring a grown man to tears. Yet we cannot, absolutely cannot, do without our teeth. So we need to have them fixed. It hurts, but we have to go. Because we only get one set. We have to put ourselves through pain in order to avoid pain later. Are we sadists? And here is this person, with that tool and that smell and that pinch, that willingly puts us through this pain because they are helping us. In essence, our pain is their pleasure. So they must be sadists, right? It’s hard to understand how all of these thoughts are provoked and all of this pondering is brought forth by one necessary evil…
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