My Foray into the World of the MRI

Magnetic Resonance
Tube of Death

A few years ago I had to go for a Magnetic Resonance Image (MRI) of my head. Some time earlier I developed claustrophobia during a MRI. The hole in the machine was the size of a basketball. Back then the technician asked me what music I wanted played during the test. I said,

"Anything but '70's music."

I also asked them to tell me when I was half way through the test, but they never spoke to me again throughout the entire procedure. When they slid me into the hole, my shoulders wouldn't fit so they jammed me in anyway. My stomach plugged the orifice completely so not only couldn't I breathe, it was dark as well. When the music came on, they were playing Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild. That was all I could take. I pushed the panic button. No one came so I pushed it again. I think the technician went for a cup of coffee because it took them forever to extract my ass out of that tube. From that day on I've been claustrophobic.

Now, the medical wheel of fortune turned against me yet again, and I was scheduled for another MRI. They told me I could take valium, but I would need to be driven home. My wife, Christine, was unavailable as she was on travel for work. Back then when people actually went into an office without fear of contracting a life threatening virus, management occasionally required employees to get in some actual face time with colleagues in a country that paid a fraction of US wages. I could've ask one of my guy friends for a ride home, but I didn't want to be around any of them while high on prescription drugs. I tend to say things that piss people off, and being stoned might reduce the last vestiges of inhibition which in today's world where by people are offended by terms like "pet owner," "fat" and "ugly," it might be devastating to my social circle. By the way, the correct vernacular is "fur guardian," "radially gifted," and "visually challenged."

So I figured I would go straight up for this MRI, but before I went in I would have to practice. I set up some pillows on the floor and slid my head into the hole. Yes, I went to my appointment with a hole in the heel of my right sock. As I said my wife was on travel so there was no one to give me a once over before I left. One time when Christine was away, I sent Willy, our youngest, to school in his pajamas. My wife damn near birthed a bovine when she saw the pic of Willy on his teacher’s Facebook page dancing with his kindergarten friends in his pajamas. Earlier that morning she texted to remind me,

Willy in Kindergarten
in Pajamas

"Don't forget to comb his hair."

Later when she questioned me I explained,

"Willy said he had his clothes on."

Willy exclaimed rather defensively,

"Dad said I had my clothes on."
 

Annette's Handy Work

I'm not sure what happened that morning, but now I was on my way to be stuffed into the medical tube of death. The kind person in attendance, Annette, informed me that they were not going to play any music and that she or her coworker, Don, would speak to me throughout the procedure. She affixed an IV to my arm so mid test they could inject some gunk into my circulatory system "for contrast." I was pretty confident I could do this straight up because their MRI machine was noticeably larger than the one I got stuck in. When Don put a cage over my head so if I lifted up in panic I wouldn't break my face, a wave of terror swept over me. I looked like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs.

Annette placed a wet face cloth over my eyes which she claimed would calm me down, but as thoughtful as she was I was having no part of a rag over my face. I felt like I couldn't breath. I slid into the machine with eyes open shaking like a Red Bull factory worker. I reversed my right sock so the hole in my heel wouldn't show up in the picture. Now if you ever had an MRI, you know it sounds like being inside of a modem with a low baud rate.

Going In

"Boing, fwop, fwop, fwop, eeeert."

I don't know what's going on in that machine, but it sure sounds intense. The grinding noise is enough to make you think the machine is coming apart. At one point I swear they set it to eleven or something because my jaw started vibrating. I thought they were going to open up a worm hole. I fully expected that when I hopped off the table it would be 1942. All these loud noises were messing up my head which is why I was in this thing in the first place. The year I spent in India on a mountainside with the Maharaja really helped. He taught me to meditate on a happy place. So I imagined I was in my shed with a case of Budweiser stubbies and a stack of nudie magazines, humming the Pina Colada song while I worked on that birdhouse I'll never finish. It seemed to work.

"...Oh hey, it's you."

Inside my Head

Before long the test was over. Don got me unhooked as he gave me some sound medical advice for my post MRI treatment. I expected him to tell me that I wouldn't be able to get lost in the woods for the next day or two as I should tend to head north. So even though I am violating at least seven HIPPA provisions, here's a picture of my head.

As I wrote this, I got a call from my doctor. One in 10,000 people get a tumor on the nerve in their ear that causes tinnitus, the annoying ringing in your ear. I'm in the 9,999 so it doesn't look like I'm going to be fitted for a pine box any time soon. I guess this is good news that after my third MRI in six years, nothing is wrong with me. When delivering the results, my doctor said in regards to the ringing in my ear,

"You must be prone to it,"

which is medical speak for,

"We haven't a fucking clue what's wrong with you."

Look at the bright side. I know for sure I don't have a tumor in my noggin, I got over my fear of confined spaces, I'm not going to die just yet, and my doctor is getting a new boat!

Editor's Note: Originally published on March 3, 2017.