A Dentist’s Kinky Secret

Last Thursday, much to my surprise, I saw one of my body’s nerves. I never dreamed such a thing could happen. I’d studied and taught anatomy and enjoyed viewing exhibitions that showed full-sized cross-sections of human anatomy. Some displays isolated the nervous system, so I’d been aware of nerves’ appearances for many years. However, my own nerves seemed well buried in my flesh. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might someday see one.

A week ago, inexplicably, I had very low energy for several days and I assumed I was fighting off a cold. When I developed a sore jaw right below two sensitive molars my dentist had been monitoring each month, I called him. He told me to come right in. X-rays clearly showed one of the suspect molars had become infected. The nerves had died and needed to be removed in a procedure called a root canal. When he announced this to me, I shivered with dread and felt tears well up behind my eyes. In the past, whenever I’d heard the term “root canal,” people shuddered as if this were the worst kind of dental torture. I prided myself on good oral hygiene and never thought that I’d have to endure the vile procedure.

I had to face it. I knew that any infection in my head posed imminent danger to my brain. I prayed hard. As it turned out, the actual procedure proved to be completely pain-free. Luckily, the infection was small and hadn’t spread. The dentist worked a full hour on my tooth. About one-third of the way through, when I was able to close my mouth for a minute, I asked the dentist if he’d gotten into the nerve area yet. He affirmed he was there and that, in fact, I might soon smell an unusual, though, typical odor of the nerves. “Really?” I asked, amazed. Somehow, nerves seemed as though they should be pristine, if not sterile. If they had any smell, it would resemble the fresh rainforest scent of laundry detergent.   

Moments later, he announced, “I have your nerve here. Want to see it?”

With my mouth full of instruments, I grunted something I hoped he knew was, “Yes.” My eyes opened wide and there it was: a half inch strand that looked like a glistening brown thread with a tiny white pearl at the end. The dentist said the brown color indicated that the poor nerve had died. Normally, it would be infused with red or blue blood cells. Its shiny exterior and the drop at the end were my warrior cells that had fought invading bacteria and had died, turning white in the honorable cause, otherwise known by the ignoble name, pus.

 “Would you like to smell it?” he asked. While the assistant rinsed and suctioned my mouth, I said “Ehhhhh…” which he correctly interpreted as my assent. He put the small former body-part up to my nose. A subtle scent wafted my way, ripe fresh meat, barely past its “sell-by” date, not a bad smell. It shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, much of my physical body was “meat.”  I felt excited. Not only had I seen my nerve, but I’d also smelled it, an adventure beyond imagination. 

The dentist kept working. My molar had two nerve canals. I felt him cease work in my mouth for a moment and I opened my eyes to see him holding the second nerve up to his nose. It seemed that he had a habit of sniffing dead body parts. He caught my glance and gave me an abashed look. “Yeah, I always take a whiff, just to make sure.” I would have laughed out loud if I could have. I’d discovered a kinky secret of dentists. However, when I thought about it, it made sense to double-check the diagnosis. Because the human sense of smell is primeval, the correct scent might indicate how bad the infection was and would reassure him, at a deep level, that the procedure had been correct. But the vision of my dignified dentist sniffing nerves as a regular habit, made me giggle.

On an ordinary Thursday, I’d beheld one of my body’s wonders, a nerve. What a thrilling experience. I also felt immeasurable gratitude for modern dentistry that healed me from a serious tooth complication, pain-free. In previous centuries, the infection of a tooth caused terrible suffering, possible permanent injury, or death. How fortunate I am to enjoy a long life in the twenty-first century and, as an added perk, be able to see and smell my nerves.

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