"Bone marrow" and "cancer" are two terms you don't want to associate with each other. Certainly not two terms I want to associate with each other. Especially I don't want to associate them with each other in terms of myself.

And yet, here I am on a Friday (a Friday--can you believe it?), face-down on a table in my oncologist's office. The nurse comes in, and I ask if she can work on my shoulders a bit. She doesn't seem to think I'm very funny. Or maybe everyone, lying face-down on this particular table, makes weak jokes about massages. It's late Friday; maybe she's heard about 20 too many similar comments this week.

I've heard a lot about this procedure. I've heard many people talk about how terrifying and miserable it is. I have to say, I'm a bit weirded out by it, but mostly because the whole experience happens without me seeing anyone. I count at least 327 separate people in the room behind me, laughing and joking, and I can't see any of them. Okay, maybe it's more like three people, and maybe they aren't really laughing and joking so much. But they're doing things behind me, and I can't see them. It's a bit disconcerting.

When crunch time comes--and I mean that literally--the oncologist swabs some iodine on my back. Cold. Then, he gives me a couple of shots and waits a few minutes. After that, it's time to begin. The only way to describe it is this: the oncologist drills a hole in my back with a large-gauge needle. That's it, in a nutshell. I assume it's threaded, because I can feel him turning it, and I mean really reefing on it. It's somewhat like he's cranking at a lug nut in my back with a tire iron. Except, of course, that the tire iron is actually a needle the size of an Atlas-I booster rocket.

Okay, so I never actually saw the needle. It was one of those things that stayed out of my sight the entire time. But I'm sure it was big.

After several minutes of twisting the needle in my back, the oncologist pulls out, I think, an inner part of the needle and puts something else inside the larger-gauge needle. He says he's taking out some aspirate, and I feel it. It's not a pleasant sensation, but it doesn't really hurt. A few moments later, he pulls the large gauge needle out of my back and, I swear this is true, the 327 people in the room begin to "ooh" and "aah."

"What is it?" I ask, disappointed I'm unable to take part in the festivities.

"It's a really good sample," the oncologist says.

"One of the best I've ever seen," one of the nurses chimes in helpfully.

Well, heck, good to know I have a knack for this bone marrow biopsy stuff. "So we're good to go?" I ask.

"With the first side," the oncologist says.

"Oh, so we're doing it twice?"

"Yes, a bilateral sample."

I'm groovy with a bilateral sample. I hear the oncologist ask for another needle, because this one he used on my first sample is too dull now. I must admit, I've drunk a fair amount of milk in my life. I have the bones to show for it.

Now, the onc repeats pretty much everything he did on the first side. At one point, I'm pretty sure he gets on top of the table and stands on the needle, driving it into my pelvic bone like a jackhammer. But as I said before, I can't really see what's going on.

About every 30 seconds during the procedure, he asks me if I'm doing okay. I find this kind of thing a bit unsettling. If he's asking, he must feel there's a pretty good reason why I might not be doing okay. But I give the thumbs-up sign every time; I'm not going to be the bone marrow wimp they talk about around here for years to come.

Then, it comes time to take the aspirate from the second side. This time, the sensation is rather painful. I liken it to feeling a molten copper wire being pulled through the back of my thigh, all the way out my back. It's not I'm-gonna-hurl painful, but I'm glad it's over in a few seconds. I do note the good oncologist has taken this time to be in the midst of some soliloquy, which I can no longer remember. He knew, I think, and wanted te be sure he was talking so I couldn't.

And then, it's over. He slaps on a few bandages and sends me on my way..

All in all, the bone marrow biopsy isn't nearly as bad as I've been led to believe. Some discomfort, a few seconds of pain, but not much else. It's got a good beat, you can dance to it.

I give it an 86.