IT ALL MAKES SENSE

This wonder doc’s remarkable condition allows him to feel his patients’ ailments

her. Turns out she has blood clots on her lungs.

I honestly don’t think I would have picked up on this diagnosis had it not been for mirror-touch synesthesia, a fascinating — and sometimes troublesome — neurological trait that causes me to feel the emotional and physical sensations of other people.

If someone has a migraine, for example, there will be a heaviness in my head. When I’m assisting with childbirth, phantom contractions go through my abdomen. If a fellow subway passenger is experiencing depression, his or her anxiety rubs off on me.

Nobody knows what causes mirror touch, though researchers have isolated evidence of synesthesia — a general neurological phenomenon where activating one sense almost simultaneously sets off another — in the brain using MRIs. It appears related to an increase in activation of the mirror-neuron system, with greater connectivity in parts of the brain tied to social perception and empathy, and less connectivity in parts of the brain responsible for distinguishing between ourselves and others — with the brain likely treating another person’s body as if it were its own.

I also have another form of synesthesia called chromesthesia, common among musicians, in which I perceive sound with color, and in another manifestation, motions with sound.

It was 2005 when I discovered I had the trait after researching the scientific literature. I read about scientists who specialize in the subject at Goldsmiths, University of London and the University of Sussex in the UK, and traveled to England to have neurological tests done by them in 2014.

Until I discovered what synesthesia was, I just thought I was unusual. Growing up in Miami, I’d watch cartoons like “The Road Runner Show,” and if Wile E. Coyote was squashed by a boulder, I’d feel compacted almost like an accordion.

As I got older, the synesthesia became more problematic. I remember watching a fight between two girls at my high school. I felt tension in my scalp as if I were being grabbed by the hair. They were clawing at each other and it felt like arrowheads scraping against my face.

So why did I pursue a career in medicine, where I’d routinely be exposed to people in distress? A key reason was being a synesthete. Sharing in the pain and suffering of others makes the patient feel a little less alone and also allows the synesthete to reason through the experience and respond with compassion and kindness. The motivation to help others has silently guided me all this time, whether as a student, resident or neurologist, as I am now.

Anecdotally, I’ve heard that synesthetes do tend to go into caring professions, possibly because by helping people they’ll feel better themselves. One friend who has mirror-touch synesthesia became a masseuse, for instance.

But it hasn’t been easy for me. In my first week as an internal-medicine clerk, a man was found on the floor suffering cardiac arrest. As the team worked to save his life, I was fully immersed in his bodily experience. I felt as if my back was pressed against the linoleum floor, my limp body buckling under each compression, my chest swelling with each artificial breath squeezed into it. I was dying, but I was not. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited after the time of death was called.

I have rarely had such a severe, visceral reaction since. As for witnessing death, I can only describe it by likening it to sitting for hours in a room with an air conditioner on and, the moment that it stops, you really notice it was running. There’s this eerie silence. All the movements that have been constantly reenacted on my body stop. At that moment, I almost have to will myself to breathe.

The way I dissipate the mirror-touch experiences and compartmentalize is to focus on something that doesn’t have emotions. A doorknob, for instance. Sometimes, it means me focusing on my own body, thinking about the sensations of my toes like you do in meditation. I might also stare into a mirror.

Avoiding eye contact helps. That way, I can really listen to a conversation without so much of a sensory component. But it has caused problems in my personal relationships. My ex-husband, Jordan, from whom I divorced a year ago, thought I wasn’t paying attention to him when it was just the opposite.

The big flip side of synesthesia is that you constantly reflect a romantic partner’s physical and emotional sensations. It’s as if my brain’s body mass extends into theirs. Separating the two is hard. Fortunately, I’ve learned a lot from past relationships and learned to detach from the other person’s experiences. I’m much freer, moving between my own self and theirs. I have more boundaries but they’re thoughtful boundaries.

What’s helped me is to approach other people’s experiences as a curiosity, not a threat. If I want a pick-me-up, I’ll look at somebody who’s having a good time. A couple hugging. A baby laughing. It’s an amazing feeling to experience the delight of an infant.

Synesthesia has been a harsh, but just, teacher. There is suffering and pain, but, at the same time, so much joy and love that can be experienced, too.