These days when I get an atypical ache or pain I do a self-assessment:
- Is this new?
- Do I know what caused it?
- Will this hamper my plans for the day?
- Do I need to bring this to my doctor's attention?"
Rather than a consequence of trodding this sod for over half a century, wearing out the OEM parts, and outlasting the warranty, I consider this a hard-won bit of self-care wisdom. It's critical to know your body so you'll know when to "play through the pain" or take a knee and figure out why your body is telling you to chill.
A lifetime ago, I was undergoing a fairly rigorous physical exam for the Navy. One of the many follow-up tests ordered by the flight surgeon was an MRI to investigate some anomalous test results. The corpsman dutifully prepped and briefed me. "Okay, sir, we're injecting a contrast dye to enhance the final images. It's critical that you tell me if you start to feel hot, nauseous, or itchy. Other than that, you'll need to remain absolutely still to ensure the sharpest pictures."
"Got it. Good to go."
I then found myself flat on my back in a confining metal tube with a rhythmic thumping coming at me in stereo.
"How you doing in there, sir? Any nausea or itching?"
"I think I'm good." But I soon started to notice a hot, prickling sensation on my back. As I lay there, this sensation started to spread. It was just mildly annoying at first, but the intensity started to ramp up. The current me would have sent up a flare at this point. But we're talking about young me full of piss and vinegar.
The corpsman seemed to sense something might be off because he came on the intercom. "Uh, sir, you're twitching a bit. Everything OK in there?"
"Sorry. Good to go."
I understood the assignment, or so I thought. Given one simple task - remaining absolutely still regardless of any other distractions - I was damned sure not going to let something like an inconsequential itch keep me from completing this mission.
By the end, I was white-knuckling it, resisting the overwhelming urge to scratch. When it was finally over, the corpsman came in to extract me from my chamber of torment. "All right, sir, just take your time standing and I'll take you....."
I never heard him finish that sentence. From the aviator crowd, I'd heard tales of what it feels like to experience tunnel vision. As aviators pulled high-g maneuvers, they'd lose peripheral vision. Their field of vision continues to constrict until all that remains is a small, circular, tunnel-like view. Through extensive training, specialized equipment, and experience, they're able to remain conscious enough to focus on the one gauge they need to pull out of the turn.
I had none of that. I was pulling exactly 1-g in the high-stress maneuver of standing when tunnel vision kicked in. At the same time, the corpsman's last sentence trailed away as if he was receding from me. I apparently crumpled like I'd taken a hard right cross from Mike Tyson.
My next conscious memory was lying on a gurney, a very bright light above me, and several masked faces looking down on me.
"Hey! Looks like he's back! Good job everyone!"
Apparently, they'd worked on me for 30 minutes. The final report called it a "'late onset' adverse reaction" to the contrast dye.
As I said, hard-won wisdom.
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