Root Problem

Just yesterday I had a root canal. Cozied into the naugahyde chair, ipod set to shuffle; I thought to myself, this is heaven compared to working on my divorce. Reclined back, eyes closed, I tried to relax; losing myself in the dulcet tones of my endodontist leaning into my upper right molar (number three) with her full body weight, grinding away at my tooth, it sounded as if a small, mechanical ferret was being throttled next to my head. And as the squealing and screeching echoed in the space under my right frontal lobe-- weeeeeeeeerrrrreeeeeeeee-- I did my best to focus on Bix Biderbeck's lilting melody, relieved not to be reading over the latest draft of my property settlement agreement for questions or comments to my attorney. It felt like a vacation.

The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.

The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?

Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.