One of the consequences of catastrophes is their ability to precisely and permanently imprint on our memories our location and activity at the time of the event, and our response to it.
This applies to personal events, such as unanticipated loss of anal sphincter control in the presence of someone we are trying to impress, as well as world-changing calamities, such as the assassination of JFK.
On the afternoon of 11 September 2001, I was working at the Breast Clinic at Queen Margaret Hospital in Dunfermline, Scotland, performing core biopsies on a group of outpatients with mammographically-indeterminate breast lesions.
It is necessary to assess the acquired core-biopsy specimens histologically prior to the patient leaving the biopsy room, so that a further specimen can be obtained if the first is found to be inconclusive.
Our two lovely pathologists, Margie and Bernadette, were waiting in their laboratory across the corridor from the procedure room.
My third patient was a tough-looking peroxide-blonde woman in her mid thirties, heavily tattooed and decorated with multiple piercings - eyebrows, ears, lips, nose and, by her uncomfortable posture in the biopsy chair, probably labia, although I didn't check. She didn't actually state that she was an IV drug user, but if appearances count, it was a given.
I had injected local anaesthetic around a suspicious lesion in the upper-outer quadrant of her right breast in preparation for the biopsy when Margie burst into the room, saying that I was required in Pathology urgently.
The first of the hijacked planes, an American Airlines Boeing 767, had just flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Centre in Manhattan.
BBC's live coverage was up and running on Pathology's small portable TV.
Margie and Bernadette, shocked and horrified, needed someone to share the drama.
I had a quick look, said "fuck me!" and returned to my patient.
But before I could complete the biopsy, United Airlines flight 175 had crashed into the southern façade of the South Tower, and Margie was back.
That was when I gave myself a needle-stick injury.
I looked at my tattooed, pierced patient and pondered my unintentional choice of a blood relative.
I don't recall the seroconversion period for HIV. It seemed like a long time then. I think it was twelve weeks.
I pondered the challenge of no nooky for 3 months.
********
The eventual blood tests were OK, and normal service, inclusive of its agricultural sense, was resumed.
My patient's histology results came back negative for breast cancer.
On a strictly personal level in the instance, all's well, as Shakespeare wrote, that ends well.
I had a quick look, said "fuck me!" and returned to my patient.
But before I could complete the biopsy, United Airlines flight 175 had crashed into the southern façade of the South Tower, and Margie was back.
That was when I gave myself a needle-stick injury.
I looked at my tattooed, pierced patient and pondered my unintentional choice of a blood relative.
I don't recall the seroconversion period for HIV. It seemed like a long time then. I think it was twelve weeks.
I pondered the challenge of no nooky for 3 months.
********
The eventual blood tests were OK, and normal service, inclusive of its agricultural sense, was resumed.
My patient's histology results came back negative for breast cancer.
On a strictly personal level in the instance, all's well, as Shakespeare wrote, that ends well.
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