Objects In Mirror

There are a number of expressions in the English language (and, I can safely assume, in most other languages) used to express the observation that most things we dread aren't as bad once they're over. I imagine that I'm not alone in getting myself all worked up over things that turn out, when all is said and done, to be far less traumatic in the execution than in the anticipation.

This comes to mind now because I am scheduled to receive an epidural steroid injenction in a couple of weeks. This will be the second and hopefully the last insertion of a large needle between my L-4 and L-5 vertebrae, the goal being to reduce inflammation of my sciatic nerve. Strangely, I was much more concerned about the first epidural than I had been about the surgery that came some weeks previous to it, wherein it was not just a needle but in fact a couple of scalpels and several pairs of hands that were monkeying about in disconcertingly close proximity to my spinal cord. I am a stranger neither to needles nor to invasive surgery, but the epidural had me freaked.

As it turns out, I was freaked over nothing. I had been in the operating room for about three minutes and had felt a couple of mild  jabs that I assumed to be a spinal block, at which point I turned my head in time to see the doctor walk past holding a gleaming stainless needle approximately the size of a hunting rifle. Expertly concealing my anxiety, I asked him how long the procedure would take.

He gave me a funny look and informed me that it was finished.

So this time I know it will be no big deal. Gigantic needle poked into my spine? Been there, done that. 

Generally all of the frightening experiences and painful injuries I've endured in my life seem to follow that pattern; once they're over, I don't remember them being as bad as they very probably were. I've been banged up pretty badly in my time--I won't bore you with the litany of abuse my body has suffered, but let it suffice to say that recitation of the complete list begins to feel like bragging after the first couple of hours. Seriously, though, I've experienced, for mercifully short periods, what several doctors have described as the upper limit of the human pain tolerance. Strangely, I don't remember what it feels like.

From an evolutionary standpoint, this seems a bit backwards. Pain exists, in part, to educate us: stove hot, ouch, don't touch stove. Doesn't it stand to reason that retaining full memory of extreme pain would serve a purpose? If it hurt so much the last time, maybe you should avoid doing it again...

On the other hand, maybe there's a lesson in the converse, to help us deal with things we know ahead of time are going to hurt: it won't be as bad as you think it will, so just get it over with. With that in mind, I'm off to meet that giant needle, and you probably have a dinner with the in-laws or something. Be strong.

Remember, objects in mirror aren't as scary as they appeared.