Geometry of Mute Pain: Chronicle of a Bone Scan in the Laboratory

The inspection begins before I notice it.

The caliper is already on the table, faintly vibrating, as if someone left it running by mistake. It makes a low sound. It could be an old phone.

The Operator says I shouldn’t be hearing that.

I don’t answer.

Metal runs along the spine. It is not exactly cold. It feels more like a correction of temperature, as if the body was miscalibrated from the beginning and someone is adjusting it without asking.

At some point, the system says “aligned.”

I don’t feel aligned.

I feel the wall.

A white wall with a small yellow stain that looks like dampness but never fully becomes it. No one mentions it. It sits there as if it has always been there.

The digital device beeps.

The beep is slightly delayed compared to the contact. That disturbs me more than the contact itself.

The Operator presses at the base of the skull.

I think of a spoon inside a glass.

It is unrelated to anything.

The stethoscope touches the lower back and what comes back is not blood or flow or anything technical. It is a hollow knock, like a door that doesn’t quite fit and keeps reopening with the air.

“Stable,” someone says.

I don’t know if it is addressed to me or to the report.

My knees respond late. Or not at all. I am not sure the difference matters. The hammer reflex test lands twice, something that shouldn’t happen according to protocol. No one corrects it.

In the corner of the ceiling there is a small spider web moving because someone opened a window in another room.

I don’t know which one.

The system continues running.

I remain inside.

Or outside.

I don’t know.

At one point, the Operator stops writing. Looks at the screen. The screen flickers once for no reason.

It is not recorded as an error.

The hand on my neck stays a second longer than necessary and then disappears.

I feel like sneezing, but it doesn’t happen.

That is all I think for a few seconds.

Then the technical language returns.