MY ENCOUNTER WITH 12 NEEDLES (OR ONE NEEDLE 12 TIMES)

DECEMBER 18, 2025 – Here’s the deal: If you’re lucky, you grow old. But being lucky in that sense isn’t for the faint of heart. The closest analogy to a human being growing old is a motor vehicle growing old. In both cases, the shine of youth fades with time. Parts wear out. Filters need replacement. Wiper blades wear thin. Ditto tire treads. In the case of humans and cars, mileage takes its inevitable toll, and eventually time and mileage run out.

Today I confronted the human side of the analogy. The “diagnostics” indicated that a part needs closer examination so that it can be addressed before the engine conks out 20,000 miles ahead of its time. Or maybe its only 10,000, given other conditions “under the hood.” (Just because a brand new alternator was installed last month doesn’t mean the fuel pump isn’t going to give out next month.)

Having undergone major “engine work” three years ago, I wasn’t losing sleep over the current “diagnostic,” though lately, apparently, the “closer examination” has been weighing on my subconsciousness—that is, appearing front and center in my dreams.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I’m still a medical wimp, despite the rather significant “engine restoration” I experienced throughout 2022. Though I’ve been jabbed by hundreds of needles, ingested and all sorts of “magic potions” and been injected with chemicals I can’t pronounce, I still can’t even look at a sewing needle without passing out.

The worst was my first bone marrow biopsy, taken in early January 2022; the measure that would lead to a definitive diagnosis of my (then suspected) disease, multiple myeloma. As that procedure was described to me in advance, it was to involve “some pain” associated with the suction of bone marrow out of my poor skeleton. I believe I was given a choice of having the sample drawn in an ordinary exam room or in an operatory after I’d been sufficiently sedated so as “not to feel a thing.” Given my status as a medical wimp, I don’t know why I didn’t opt for sedation, though being knocked out did seem to involve way too much “commotion.”

When ironically, I nearly passed out from the pain, I wanted to file an emergency motion for a change of venue—to the sedation facility—but of course, by that point, pun fully intended, it was too late. I howled so severely and suddenly, I broke out in a cold sweat. “Never again,” I vowed.

And so for the three subsequent bone marrow biopsies, I was afforded full and pleasant sedation. For the second two I remember trying to see how far someone in the operatory could count backwards before I was consigned to la-la-land. To give myself an advantage, before the IV line was opened, I made a point of asking the name of all six or eight (there were many!) personnel assigned to my case and repeating them as the sedative took effect. By the third biopsy, I’d learned to move my jaw a little faster before getting to . . . “[gibberish].”

For today’s biopsy, involving (so I was informed) 12 needles, or rather, one needle 12 times, I wasn’t even offered a trip to la-la-land. When I recalled the outlandish pain from the bone marrow biopsy, however, I was prescribed a “happy pill”—one milligram of the anti-anxiety drug, Alprazolam. “But you’ll need a driver,” I was told.

I’d taken Alprazolam during the darkest days leading up to and following my diagnosis four years ago and found the drug effective in chasing away my nightly panic attacks. But I took it so I could sleep and never knew what effect it would have in the middle of the day. To address today’s challenge without full sedation, I decided that to reinforce the unknown daytime effect of the “happy pill,” I’d rely on three supplementary factors: 1. No caffeine, as per the pre-procedure instructions; 2. Go to bed late last night and get up early this morning.; and 3. Go skiing this morning ahead of the procedure. I figured that these three measures would leave me naturally very sleepy by 11:00 a.m., the scheduled time of my encounter with the 12 needles (or 12 attacks with one needle). Add the “happy pill,” I thought, and I’d be as good as sedated.

That was my plan, anyway. Because soaring temperatures overnight had likely trashed the groomed x-c ski (skating) track in nearby “Little Switzerland,” I almost opted out of skiing. With the time window closing rapidly, however, I ultimately decided to prove to myself that even if I’m now an “old car” requiring a trip to the mechanic’s garage, there’s still measurable horsepower under the hood. I sprang into action and drove over to the southwest corner of the park, where I could hop on the groomed ski course. My 20-minute outing qualified for my sixth tally mark for the 2025-26 ski season.

Now fast forward three hours. I was about to take the “happy pill,” when I wondered how long it might render me “happy,” and how that state of being might affect other plans I had for the day. “Four to six hours,” was the online answer. This gave me pause. Tension arose between my fear of pain and my desire to be fully alert and productive after my medical ordeal.

I didn’t realize it in the moment but the decision—for better or worse—had already been made. I’d planned to take the “happy pill” just before the scheduled time of the procedure, assuming that the drug was relatively fast acting. In the event, however, things moved more quickly than I’d anticipated, and the nurse remarked that I should’ve taken the “happy pill” a half hour before. “The procedure is likely to be finished before the Alprazolam takes effect,” she said.

Again, I recalled the pain of the bone marrow biopsy. “Okay,” I told the nurse. “It’s time for me to grow up, face the music, and laugh. Problem is, I can’t think of any good jokes right now. Can you?”

“I’m sorry, no I can’t,” she said with an ironic chuckle. “But,” she continued, “I don’t think this is nearly as bad as the bone marrow biopsy you had. And we do apply a local anesthetic.”

“Music to my ears,” I said. “And I really like the fact you just used the word, ‘anesthetic.’”

Before I knew it, the doctor had joined the nurse, and we were off to the races. I knew the doc had been a champion collegiate (Harvard) downhill skier, and to distract myself, I mentioned that to prepare for the procedure underway, I’d gone skiing this morning. He responded favorably to this comment, and for the duration of the task at hand, we talked “skiing.” This was doubly appropriate, given the “ski” in his name reflecting Polish ancestry. Since he was a Harvard alum, I knew that all his racing would’ve been in New England. This allowed me to ask about his favorite ski areas, most of which I’d skied. Our conversation served as a perfect distraction. I pretended we were riding together on the main chair at Stowe and that the 12 “points of pain” were merely gusts of air blowing down off the summit of Mount Mansfield and producing temporary wind chill that caused me to grit my teeth for less than a second—times 12.

The imaginary ski run back down to the base of Stowe was a piece of cake. When I reentered the lobby and saw “my ride”—my good brother-in-law Chuck (completely in character (reading a serious book))—I pretended to execute a sharp parallel (hockey) stop, plastering the book with snow.

“Got that behind me,” I said. Well sort of. What counts is not the pain caused by 12 needles or one needle 12 times, but the results of the biopsy. Being the consummate medical wimp, of course, without adult supervision, I’m not planning to check the lab report online. Besides, Christmas is right around the corner—along with light and joy. Why run the risk of dimming holiday cheer? I’ll meet with the doc soon enough—on December 30. On that occasion he’ll explain next steps, and until then, I’ll be out on bail back on the streets of Stowe, Vermont. Whether the ensuing ski run is down a “blue” slope or a “double-black diamond,” I’ll make certain my skis are waxed for a Happy New Year.

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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson