I worked for a pain management doctor before I was told I couldn’t work anymore. We did procedures. Laid the patient face down on the table and poked and prodded, usually, along the spine. Often the needles were large. Over a half of a year, I saw people react very differently to these “procedures.” Some winced. Some screamed. Some cried. Some didn’t. I would be lying if I said the reaction of a patient didn’t lead me to some assumptions of their overall character.

This week I had my own “procedure,” a bone marrow biopsy and aspiration. The biopsy cuts away a piece of  bone, the aspiration sucks up some of the liquid marrow. This is the second time in the past eight months I’ve undergone one of these. The first time was not even 24 hours after my initial emergency room visit. There wasn’t much time to really think about it. I remember it was painful but I couldn’t tell you about the pain. Nor could I recount specific emotions before, after or during. It has blurred into the pile of blurs that come along with any overwhelming experience.

This time I got to prepare for it. My disorder is no longer a surprise and neither are the tests needed. They gave me a packet weeks ago, telling me precisely what had to be done. Monday, March 1st, was to be a bone marrow biopsy and aspiration day. Monday came and I sat  in the waiting area and waited for my name to be called out.

And it happened. “Sheehan,” a woman yelled.

She introduced herself and walked me back to the procedure room. There she instructed me how to lay for the procedure, then prepped me and told me we  had to wait until her associate arrived.

My mind wandered back to my old job. Walking patients back, telling them what to expect while my mind ran through a checklist. The whole spiel was on autopilot. While prepping them, I never shook with nervous anticipation, but now lying here my leg wouldn’t stop. I was asking the nurse the same questions patients used to ask me. And there she was reassuring me with the same lines and the  tone she will use to reassure everyone after me. With the first poke she steadied my leg with the same clinical touch she has and will use on  all those before and after. I wonder what assumptions a shaky leg leads to.

the piece of bone biopsied

It took maybe 15 minutes in all. They warned me of the sensation about to come, told me to breath at those more painful moments. Prattled off “just one more..” or “almost done..” And then they pulled out the one inch sample of bone. Something like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. The assistant steadied my leg and said “all done, you did well.”

That was my line too.

Those times I rolled my eyes and thought this patient is acting absurd are regrettable. Not because the patients weren’t absurd, many may have been the attention craving, drama queens assumed. The inclination to arrive at a conclusion regardless of the sample size is what’s really regrettable. If you think long enough there are a multitude of instance we do this everyday, at least I do. Too often I find myself failing to take into account that what’s routine and ordinary and run-of-the-mill for me, could be new or nerve racking or even terrifying for another person. But there are those infrequent times when the twists and turns of life presents an opportunity where you can, to paraphrase Atticus Finch,” climb in and crawl around in someone else’s skin.” Even if it’s just for a moment.

Mine was easy and obvious. Some of us are lucky. When those moments do happen, absorb them. You never know when it’s going to be your turn on the table.

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