The aspirate is not fun. The doctor is an old man with thin white hair. He walks carefully into the room, as if trying to avoid marbles that have been scattered on the floor. His arms are thin and bony, but his grip is strong. He reminds me of a Norman Rockwell painting.
A male nurse enters the room after Dr. Gorst. He pushes a metal cart. It jangles with equipment.
"Robert," Dr. Gorst says, flipping through a couple of pages on a clipboard. He says my name almost as if it is a question, as if he is making sure that he is in the right room. I nod, but he is still reading the charts and papers, so I don't know that he sees it. He finally sets the clipboard down. He lowers himself to the edge of my bed, hands on his thighs, a deep exhale as he sits down. He pats my legs. There is something about this man that I like. I imagine him in a battered cottage in the country, removing lollipops from a big glass jar, smiling at the children he helped deliver.
But then he asks if he can take a look at me, and I remember that he is an oncologist. A blood specialist.
He puts the back of his hand against my forehead. He asks to see the sores inside my mouth. "Have you been bruising at all," he asks.
"A little," I tell him. I am wearing shorts underneath the blankets. "There are a few on my feet. See?" I pull back the blankets.
"Yes. And these spots, too."
I tell him that I don't know what those are.
"Would you mind turning over for a bit, son?" he asks.
I roll onto my stomach. He touches a few spots on my legs. "You look like a punching bag back here," he says. I glance over my shoulder and see several purple and black on the backs of my thighs. "You can turn back over, now," he says.
"Well. There is no question that we want to do this aspirate. Do you know what an aspirate is, son?"
"No. No idea."
He clears his throat. He turns to the male nurse. "Can I see that one... no... over there... yes. That's the one." The nurse hands him a long needle.
"Are you afraid of needles, son?"
I tell him that I am not, even though the sight of that particular needle is more than a little spooky.
"Good, good. This needle here is hollow. There is a little hollow tip at the end. Can you see it? I will put this into your back, just above your tailbone, and pull out a sample of your bone marrow. That's what we are after, really, your marrow. Now it might hurt a bit. We are going to have some anesthesia back there, but I'll need to put a good deal of pressure on your back. It needs to go into your bone, understand, so it might take some work."
I nod again. Somehow I wish that his arms were larger.
"Good. Excellent. We can go ahead and start now, if you'd just lay on your side. That way. On your left side. Good."
I ask him if it would be easier if I removed my shirt. He tells me that would be fine, so I take it off. I lay on my side. There is the clatter of metal on metal behind me. Dr. Gorst clears his throat again. He whispers to the male nurse, and then I feel something cool and wet on my back. An alcohol swab, I guess.
"There will be a little sting here, Robert. This is the anesthesia. It will be like a bee sting, and then things will start getting numb."
"Okay."
And then the sting comes, exactly as he said it would. It is near my hip, on the right side of my back. The "up" side. My skin begins to feel tingly and numb. I can feel him working the needle around, spreading the anesthesia. He pushes against the skin. His thumb is there but I can't really tell. The male nurse hands him a different needle. He pushes in more anesthesia.
"You're doing fine, son. I'm going to put the other needle in, now, the hollow one. Here is where it might hurt. If it starts to hurt too much, let me know, and I'll give you more anesthesia. But you have to let me know."
I clench my teeth. I don't feel the needle enter my skin, but I do feel pressure against my tailbone. It is a steady pressure. Dr. Gorst grasps my hip with his hand. The pressure increases to the point of pain. Extreme pain. Anesthesia can do nothing for this type of pain, I know, so I say nothing. It hurts like hell, and I bite down, eyes closed, trying to think of other things.
It stops hurting. Dr. Gorst releases his grip. He takes a deep breath. "Those are some strong bones you've got there, son." He chuckles. "Let's try again."
The pain increases. I want to cry out. It feels as if he is trying to drive a spike through my back. But I tell myself that I can't scream. He is doing his job. He is doing what he has to to help me get better. It will be no easier for him if I complain about a little pain.
"There," he says, finally, taking the needle out of my back. "That should be plenty." The sound of paper tearing. A dry cloth wiping at my back and then some kind of adhesive. There is a thick bandage on the site. Dr. Gorst stands up to leave.
"We should have the results back for you in a few hours. At least the preliminary results. We'll want to run quite a few tests. But I'll be sure to let you know as soon as we find out anything."
I thank him for his efforts.
"No, son, thank you. That had to hurt, but you were very good about it."
I start to thank him again, but he cuts me off.
"I will be back with these results as soon as possible. Get some rest. Sleep. You'll feel much better for it."
