Gas
Making You Sick?
by Jürgen Fauth
It was a sore
molar that was giving me trouble, on the bottom right.
The dentist, who had been my parents' dentist and
about whose adulterous affairs everybody in the neighborhood
knew and whispered about, ts-ts-ts'ed me and murmured
"decay" before pulling out the drill. He never wore
a mouth guard or rubber gloves, which made me nervous.
His helper, a new girl with black curly hair, slipped
the purple laughing gas mask over my face and proceeded
to line up pointy stainless-steel instruments on the
movable tray. I instantly felt the nitrous oxide I
was breathing through the purple mask, less in my
head than in my limbs, which seemed to gain in weight
immensely and drop away from my body, leaving me to
float. "Wheee!" went the drill, and my dentist leaned
in to remove the decay on my molar. The premonition
of pain made me twitch upon first contact, but another
breath and I was flooded with peace and relaxed further.
And I breathed again, and I relaxed further. And I
breathed again, and I relaxed further. And I breathed
again, and I relaxed further. Something wasn't right.
"Whee!" still went the drill, and "Whee!" went my
world. My dentist's helper said something I couldn't
make out. How much further would I relax? Now I couldn't
hear the sound of the drill anymore at all, but another
sound which appeared to me as the basic hum of the
universe, a sound that is there all along but which
we never hear. My dentist's helper was saying the
same incomprehensible thing over and over again; the
world was stuck on this one moment, "Whee!", and the
base hum grew louder and louder, as if I was approaching
it, remembering it: it had been there all along. Clammy,
I realized it was the sound of my own death which
had been patiently waiting behind the noise of the
world. It was waiting for me to notice it--to remember
it. Death, I realized, drawing in more nitrous oxide
sharply, is like an ugly black puppy that chases you
for decades. You forget about it, but when it's time,
it's just you and the puppy, and you'll recognize
that it was yours all along. It's more loyal than
anything. Reader, there is one waiting for you, but
of course you know that. It's what makes us the same,
you and me. If you're quiet, you can hear it pant.
What I had mistaken for the low drone
of the world was the static sound of a flat line,
the sound of my doom; an eternal noise that means
you don't have to care about anything anymore: the
time for caring is over. It is infinite, and nothing
in it stirs. It is rest, and I was approaching it
quickly.
I made out what the dentist's helper
was saying: "Are you all right?" The words echoed
in my skull. "Are you all right?" And again: "Are
you all right?" I just wanted the moment to be over,
wanted no fuss over me, regardless if I would live
or die. It occurred to me that my dentist had stopped
drilling, and now there where his words: "Is the gas
making you sick?" And the echo: "Gas making you sick?"
And then I moved. I bucked, jerked the
spit tube out of my mouth and pushed the dentist's
drill-wielding hand aside, slit out from under the
nitrous mask, out of the chair. Everything receded
and repeated as if it was a movie that had to be shown
over again before a new frame could be added, the
world falling away from me like so many strips of
celluloid. Seven, fourteen, twenty-four dentists a
second, his helper stupidly repeating, "Are you all
right? Are you all right? Are you all right?"
The black puppy backed off as things
became clearer again. I found myself standing next
to the chair, my hand clasped around the pole that
held the adjustable overhead light. My dentist was
reaching out his hand: "Everything is okay," he said.
"Everything is all right."
