Recently, I had an experience that might seem odd to some, yet entirely relatable to others. Although I'm not seriously claustrophobic, I do feel trapped in closed spaces, especially when I start thinking about it. If my mind is occupied, it's usually not a problem, but this time was different.
I had been ignoring a persistent pain in my knee for quite some time. After countless times of brushing it off, I finally decided to visit a doctor. He suggested an MRI scan to rule out certain possibilities. Having never undergone this test before, I knew little about it, so I turned asked my friends about what to expect. I learned that I would be placed inside a machine that takes detailed images of the affected area, and I’d need to remain still throughout the process. The thought of being inside a machine triggered my anxiety, and I initially refused to take the test. However, my family convinced me that since only my knee needed to be scanned, the rest of my body wouldn’t go inside the machine. This assurance calmed me slightly.
The day of the test arrived, and I entered the room, feeling uneasy at the sight of the machine. I asked the attendants how much of my body would be inside the machine, and they assured me it would only go up to my stomach. That brought some relief. But when they finally positioned me on the bed and moved me into the machine, it stopped above my chest. Only my face and hands were outside. "Thank God for that," I thought. At least I could still breathe. I reassured myself that everything would be fine.
As the machine started, the attendants placed headphones on my ears and left the room. Initially, I didn’t realize they were no longer there. I assumed they were monitoring everything from a distance. The machine began making rumbling sounds, which fluctuated between high-pitched and low tones. I tried to focus on the ceiling above, telling myself that my face was outside the machine, that I could breathe, and that I needed to stay still for the test to be accurate.
However, after about 10 minutes, discomfort began to set in. I felt as though I was completely alone in the room, and panic started to creep in. I couldn't move, not even my head. The machine seemed to engulf me, and soon, the claustrophobia took over. Despite trying to calm myself, I could feel the panic rising, and I couldn't hold it back any longer. I shouted, asking if anyone was there. A voice came through the headphones, instructing me to stay still. I responded, saying I couldn't because I was panicking and needed someone in the room with me.
Within moments, an attendant appeared and held my hand. I clutched it tightly, not wanting to let go. She comforted me with her soft words, holding my hand firmly. Just the thought of another human being in the room instantly calmed my nerves. Her presence and touch gradually helped me relax, and my breathing returned to normal. After what felt like an eternity, the test finally ended, and I was wheeled out of the machine. The relief I felt was incredible.
As I hurried out of the room and the hospital, I prayed I would never have to go through that again. But something struck me about the whole experience: the stark difference between man and machine. The relief I felt when the attendant held my hand—the human touch—immediately calmed my panic. In a world hurtling towards greater reliance on machines, I found solace in the simple truth that no matter how far technology takes us, the essence of our humanity—the ability to comfort, to connect, to understand—must never be lost.
The irony is stark - while technology is designed to bring us closer to solutions and each other, it can also create a distance, an emotional void that no algorithm or software can fill. The convenience and capabilities that technology offers are undeniable, but they come with a risk: the erosion of human empathy, warmth, and the simple but powerful act of one person reaching out to another in a moment of need. Can we afford to lose that?
The writer is Dy. General Manager (HR) at CMPDIL, Ranchi.
