THE HUMAN SUNBEAM

JANUARY 7, 2022 – The imagination of an award-winning filmmaker couldn’t have anticipated yesterday’s centerpiece.

The bone marrow biopsy procedure had been described to me previously, and I’d developed three strategies for the ordeal. Foremost was focus on the mountain of good will created by family and friends. Second was music—of my choosing, and I chose a recording of Nathan Milstein performing Partita No. 2 from Bach’s famous work for unaccompanied violin. Third was rapport with the people running the show.

None of these strategies, however, addressed the post-procedure experience that left an indelible impression.

First, a digression. “Annie,” who performed the procedure, was yet another angel of healthcare. She established immediately my confidence in her competence. She’s also a marathoner—for charity—and though my own marathon days are ancient history, the subject launched easy rapport. I confessed that my running was motivated by addiction to endorphins and obsession with personal achievement. I also told why the wind had left my sails—the Stockholm Marathon in June 1982; bad conditions crushing hope of a PR; and after Stockholm, traveling to Poland, then under martial law, and witnessing extreme hardship. “That’s when I realized,” I told Annie and Chelsea, my angel-nurse, “that my competitive running obsession was ludicrously self-indulgent. I salute you, Annie—running for charity.”

Then came the dreaded moment. “We’ll have you lie face down on the bed,” said Annie. Surprisingly, I didn’t have to disrobe.

“I can wear my shoes?”

“Sure.”

“Great. I can escape faster.” [Laughter] “What about my jeans?”

“Think, ‘slight butt crack,’” Annie said with a wink. “I’ll need access only to your hip.”

Milstein, meanwhile, was 10 minutes into the Partita. As matters progressed, he and Bach faded away—contrary to plan.

The procedure was manageable until its presto-agitato coda: four brief bouts of excruciating pain reminiscent of: (a) Medieval torture by dismemberment; (b) interrogation in a Gestapo prison; (c) POW treatment in violation of Geneva Conventions; and (d) impalement on a sharp stake in a 1630s Puritan village. (As Beth is my witness, I exaggerate . . . only a little.)

The pain of “torture” soon dissipated as unpleasantness forgotten. Mercifully and genuinely, Annie wished me well, leaving Chelsea to oversee recovery and to give Beth—my “ears”—instructions. I then told Chelsea how people have overwhelmed me with positivity and what I’ve learned about gratitude. Her eyes and slow nodding told that she understood.

“I have my own story about gratitude,” she said.

Out of respect for her privacy, I won’t divulge details beyond the start: “My kids and I watched our house burn to the ground.” Her account contained the makings of a best-seller, an Academy-award-winning (best screenplay) film, and inspirational speeches. As Chelsea finished, I realized she’d imparted a definitive lesson in despair, then hope; struggle and resilience; love heaped upon gratitude. Her story was a divine gift of insight into the human condition.

I’m gloriously distracted from the results of the biopsy: I’m still processing how Chelsea became a human sunbeam.

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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson