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explained, “we first put the patient through cardiac catheterization. It is the best diagnostic tool we have available to us.

      “We will insert catheters—little tubes—into an artery and a vein, and we will send them into your heart. We will inject dyes through the catheters so that we can take movies of the heart and of the arteries around your heart so that we can determine whether or not there is any blockage.

      “This way, we can determine exactly what is your problem, we can see exactly how your heart is functioning, and we can tell if there are any hidden problems we didn’t already know about.”

      That didn’t sound so terrible, but doctors tend to leave out details when they are explaining things.

      Friend of mine called me a few days before I was to have the catheterization.

      “Had it myself a couple of years ago,” he said.

      “How bad is it?” I asked.

      “Not too bad,” he said. “First, they whack open your arm and start shoving all these tubes up in you. When they get the tubes in, they shoot in the dye.

      “The doctor will say, ‘This is going to burn a little.’ What he doesn’t say is where it burns.”

      I never learn my lesson. I had to ask where it burns.

      “Your testicles,” he said. “The dye goes from your heart to your bladder and burns your testicles. You’ll think your testicles are going to burn right off. But try not to think about it before you go in there.”

      As my wife was driving me to the hospital to have my catheterization, she asked, “Something’s been on your mind for days. What is it?”

      I thought it best not to tell her.

      Aside from the evening I was born, I had never been a hospital patient before. First, they make you put on one of those silly gowns with no back. Those gowns have no backs so it is easier for the nurses to slip up behind you and give you a shot in your hip.

      “This is going to make your mouth very dry,” said the nurse as she gave me a shot in my hip. A lot of things puzzle me about medicine. One is, if they want to make my mouth dry, then why do they give me a shot in my hip?

      Next, you have to sign a release saying it is okay for your doctor to do this cardiac catheterization thing to you.

      “Just sign it,” said the nurse.

      “But I think I should read the release first,” I said.

      “Just sign it,” said the nurse.

      Like I said, I never learn. I read the release, all the way down to the part where it said, in large letters, that cardiac catheterization includes “the ultimate risk of death.”

      “Nobody said anything about dying from this,” I said to the nurse.

      “It’s just a routine release,” said the nurse. “I told you not to read it.”

      I asked for the number of the nearest cab service.

      “You can’t leave now,” the nurse insisted. “I’ve already given you a shot. What are you afraid of?”

      “I’m afraid my testicles will get burned off and I will die,” I said.

      Before I could get out of my hospital gown and back into my clothes—you wouldn’t have much luck hailing a cab with a bare bottom, I decided—they came to take me away for the catheterization.

      They were bringing in another victim as I left the prep room. A nurse handed him his release.

      “Just sign it,” I said to him.

      “But shouldn’t I read it first?” he asked.

      “Not unless you think you can catch a cab half-naked,” I said, as they rolled me away.

      The first thing I asked the doctor, once I had been strapped down on the platform that poses for a bed in the catheterization room was, “How much is this going to hurt?”

      “You are hardly going to feel a thing,” he answered.

      The next thing I asked the doctor was, “Have you ever undergone this procedure yourself?”

      “No,” he answered.

      Just as I thought. He’s going to cut open my arm on the other side of my elbow, stick tubes into my heart, inject dyes that will burn my testicles, and I am hardly going to feel a thing.

      There is, in fact, this awesome communications gap between the medical profession and its patients when it comes to pain.

      I happen to be an expert on pain. I can get hurt pouring a glass of milk.

      To me, pain is anything even slightly uncomfortable that is caused by somebody other than myself poking, picking, sticking, or jabbing me.

      Pain to the medical profession probably would be something like cutting off your left foot without first giving you an aspirin.

      The next time you’re having something done to your body by a doctor, ask him, “Is this going to hurt?”

      He will likely answer, “It might sting a little.”

      Sting is a word they use a lot in medicine. Sting, to me, means a slight pain, a level or two under a mosquito bite.

      When a doctor says, “This might sting a little,” he really means, “Have you ever been bitten by a large animal with very sharp teeth?”

      Here are some other phrases to be careful of the next time you go to the doctor or spend any time in the hospital:

      — “You might feel a little pressure here.” This means the brakes on the delivery truck full of frozen pudding that is unloading in front of the hospital are about to give way and the truck, all ten tons of it, is going to roll over you. That’s the “little pressure” you’re going to feel.

      — “This might pull a little.” They used to say the very same thing to enemies of the state just before they put them on the rack. If a doctor says, “This might pull a little,” prepare for your kidneys to be yanked up to your throat. I’m no expert on the anatomy, but your kidneys have no business in your throat.

      If you happen to be in the hospital or at your doctor’s office and somebody mentions something about something “pulling a little,” run as fast as you can for the nearest bus, even if you are half-naked.

      — “I did this same thing to a seven-year-old boy this morning, and he didn’t even whimper.” Had the child been conscious, however . . .

      — “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Not if you’re used to finishing third in ax fights, no.

      — “Very few of my other patients even complain about this procedure.” That doesn’t surprise me at all, Dr. Quincy.

      — “This may tingle a bit when the needle goes through the nerve.” Look around for a soft place to land.

      — “I think the anesthetic has had plenty of time to take effect.” Couldn’t we wait just six more weeks to be sure?

      — “If you will just relax, this will be over before you know it.” Be especially careful of this one. The doctor is just trying to buy time before you start trying to hurt him back. What he really means is that the British fleet can turn around and sail all the way back home from the Falkland Islands and this tube will still be stuck straight up Argentina.

      I am strapped onto the bed. The room is out of the Mad Scientist. I am wishing they had put me to sleep for this. They don’t put you to sleep for catheterization because there are times when they want you to cough and hold your breath. All they can do, I suppose, is make your mouth dry.

      “One thing before we start,” said a nurse. “If your nose itches, don’t try to scratch it. We want you to lie still. If your nose itches, ask me and I will scratch it for you.”

      Why

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