Some time ago when I was just a lad of about 22, I had opportunity to participate first hand in the medical procedure which is called a 'myelogram'. This is Latin for 'extremely painful'. This procedure was to be carried out at a large hospital which was used as a teaching hospital for nurses.

If you're unfamiliar with a myelogram, consider yourself fortunate and read no farther lest you be plagued with night sweats and troubled sleep. If you're masochistic, feel free to continue reading this journal of one man's journey into the darker side of medicine.

Simply explained, a myelogram is a procedure in which the patient, lying face down upon a round pillow (to arch the back properly), has a needle inserted between two vertebrae, spinal fluid is removed, and a radio-opaque substance is introduced into the spine. The body is then tilted back and forth to allow x-rays to be taken as the radio-opaque fluid, which is heavier than the normal spinal fluid, shifts about. This test is useful for identifying such things as a ruptured intervertebral disk.

Sounds simple, doesn't it? Ah, gentle reader, continue on and be prepared to be stripped of your innocent ideas and naïve thinking. As I mentioned in the beginning, this was a hospital used to train nursing students. This meant that not only was there the normal complement of nurses, technicians, and physicians present in the examination room, but the inner walls of the room were lined with nursing students, with an age range of 18 to 20 years old for the most part. Being, as I said, about 22, I felt a certain delight in this situation as I lay, scantily covered, upon the exam table.

Then, the horror started! First they removed my glasses from me! Now, although I knew that each of the young ladies was viewing my body with admiration and desire, I could no longer see their faces in order to ascertain just exactly which student wanted me most! Barbaric!

Now that they had applied psychological torture, and I had not broken, they decided to go for the old-fashioned physical torture. This involved the placing of the round pillow under my belly. For those of you who have taken tests of logic, you are familiar with the type of question that goes something like: Apples are to trees as grapes are to (blank). Obviously, the answer is vines. Well, using that as an analogy, and remembering that this was a 'medical' procedure, then answer this one: graphite is to diamonds as round medical pillows are to (???). Give up? The answer is logs. Large logs. Hard logs. Logs that would have delighted Paul Bunyon with their size and exhausted him with their hardness.

At first, all went well. My back was arched, the needle was introduced, fluid was removed, and the radio-opaque fluid was introduced into my spine. Then, (and here I must remind the gentle reader that this is a PG rated site and children should not be reading this) they began to roll me back and forth. First one way and then the other, then back again the other way.

Not possessing medical expertise, I can not speak for how such a procedure affects the average person. I can tell you how it affected me. First I would roll one way, the log, ooops, I mean pillow, crushing my intestines and compressing intestinal gases. Then I would roll the other way, forcing more and more gases into an ever more compressed form. As I realized what was happening and the possible, er, uh, outcome of this situation, I clinched my teeth. Still the process continued! Would it never end? I gripped the table, my fingers creating grooves in the stainless steel border. My buttocks squeezed together more tightly, becoming rock hard with pressure. Yet still the interminable procedure continued. Still they rolled me back and forth, naively unaware of the cataclysm soon to strike.

Finally, at the utmost limits of my endurance, I could last no longer. With a sound evocative of the blast of Mt. Krakatoa, the gas escaped and evil was loosed upon the world.

First to be struck was the physician immediately to (where else?) my rear. The blast of gas stripped his lab coat off him and flung him against the far wall where he lay immobilized with shock and permanently deprived of his sense of smell. The students were shrieking and their teachers were hurriedly trying to rush them out the door while simultaneously trying not to gag. A technician rushed over to the prostrate doctor and tried to pull him to safety. The doctor, ever mindful of his Hippocratic Oath, urged the technician to "Run, save yourself!" To his everlasting credit, the tech refused to obey the doctor and managed to pull him out of the room. This bravery was later rewarded with the Poindexter Medal for Courage and there are many who, to this day, say it was only the fact that the tech was a civilian which prevented him from receiving the Medal of Honor.

They never reopened that exam room. It was simply bricked up and a small plaque was placed on it detailing the horrific event. The nursing students were given a months leave and a t-shirt which said "I survived The Blast". The injured doctor abandoned patient practice and began a career of analyzing fecal smears where his lack of smell gave him a major edge over his peers.

They never finished my myelogram either. They simply discharged me and said that if I promised to stay away from the hospital and downwind from it, there would be no charges, either financial or criminal. There was one good outcome, however. I was approached by the Department of Defense and now have a lucrative career as a consultant for the Army's nerve gas program.