Roles We Play

“Hello, my name is Michael,” the doctor said, sitting down beside me in the waiting room. As he described the procedure – a lumbar puncture (otherwise known as a spinal tap) – his young, rounded face held the shadow of a smile. He asked whether I was happy to go ahead, to which I responded with sarcastic, bitter banter, as seems to be my preferred means of dealing with medical maladies. I wonder if anyone is ever happy being needled in the spine?

As I followed Michael through the hallway, I passed an old man. He was hunched over a walking frame and moved forward at a glacial pace, clearing his throat as he went. I gave him a brief smile, taking in his drooping brow, then entered the operating room.

I curled up on the bed in a fetal position, knees-to-chest, to expose the lower part of my back. My mother sat on the chair in-front. I was aware then that my parents exacerbate, rather than alleviate, my anxiety. They are afflicted by the perennial-parent condition: they see me not for who I am, but for who I have been. Before my mother led the little boy who was scared of having his blood pressure taken. I felt more at risk of giving in to my fears while observed by someone who subconsciously suspected I would do just that.

I asked her to leave. In her mind, her role was to be strong for her child and to provide him with a hand to hold. She left, looking hurt.

“You do not have to do this,” Michael said, as he moved his hands around my back and picked up on my anxiety (the squirming may have been a slight giveaway). I did not know what to expect. Pain and pressure - something unpleasant, I was sure. But by giving me the choice, Michael empowered me as a patient. After a long pause, I expressed my firm resolve to continue.

The anesthetic went into my lower back with a scratch, less painful than giving blood. In response, my body tensed, shoulders in particular. “I'm not sure we can continue,” Michael said. “You're too tense.” I relaxed. Went limp. Again, his giving me the choice gave my assertive and anxious personality a chance to breathe. I did not need to fight the doctors, nor was I fighting the preconceived opinions of parents, so instead found the strength to fight myself.

At some point after, the needle for the lumbar puncture was inserted. I do not know exactly when, as Michael never saw fit to mention it. I was only vaguely aware of movement, then felt a sensation much like an insect crawling over my skin, only moving deeper.

I felt a strange urge to laugh. “I will say that this is one hell of an anesthetic.” My nervous tension had come to nothing. My restrained-laughter was both of relief and of the procedure being in progress without me even noticing. It was a private joke, of which all parties were aware. A role play, much like how children act super-excited, even when a package promises socks.

A feeling of cold migrated up my spine, then heat, and eventually the insect crawled back out. “Thank you, Michael?” I shook his hand firmly, but his name caught on my tongue and took on the tone of a question. I cleared my throat. A doctor had introduced himself with his first name? I have never known that to happen. The patient-care relationship is usually so detached and distant; power is never shared.

I never once questioned that I was in the presence of a doctor. The uniform and setting were enough. However, doctors are sometimes in need of reminding that they are human beings. Michael, by virtue of name, managed to be both a human and a doctor.

The exit to the ward was blocked by the old man that I had passed earlier. “We can't go this way,” said the young nurse clinging to his arm. “Do you like looking at all the people?” She asked with serene patience as the man cleared his throat again, sighed, and remained motionless. I waited patiently for several minutes.

Suddenly, my stomach lurched. Several seconds later my brain caught up. I noticed that the left hand side of the old man's head was concave shaped. All was normal, except that he was missing a sizeable chunk of the left hemisphere of his brain. On one level, the sight was humbling, bringing to mind that there is always someone worse off than you. More crucially, it was a startling example of how often we acknowledge, but do not see. I had passed the man before, smiled even, but I was blind to his misfortune.

How often we accept the actors around us, and how rarely we notice the role they play.