In a couple of days I will have the first MRI in a long time. I think it’s been at least five years. Some people have them all the time. I go as little as possible because they do nothing to help me. Really, MRIs are just a tool to help Dr. Doomandgloom – my neurologist – determine the progression of my MS. Ironically, progress in my disease is not a good thing. It means things are getting worse, and I already have a good idea of what’s happening … and not happening.
Ahh, memories of MRIs. Getting to the appointment for the very first one was a comedy of errors. In 1998 there was only one in the entire province and it travelled from one hospital to the next. My scan would be in Saint John. My husband and I were newcomers to New Brunswick, so I got directions and off we went. When we arrived we learned there were two hospitals, and we were at the wrong one. Of course. One mad scramble later we finally arrived. I’m not usually a pill taker, but my claustrophobic frontal lobe convinced me that I needed a little something for anxiety. I took the Ativan and re-emerged in a stoned stupor.
Here’s what happens inside. They lay me down on a little stretcher, take my glasses and put earplugs in. I’m inserted into the maw of the machine like a human tampon. The tube I’m in is so narrow, there’s only a couple of inches to spare above my face. I lay motionless for 30 to 45 minutes while the magnet chugs and clanks away. Every few minutes I hear a voice that tells me how long the next set of scans will take. It’s not invasive or uncomfortable, but I have to fight the urge to freak out.
The first two or three scans reduced me to tears, needing to be hauled out of the tube between tests so I could breathe, sip some water. Actually, I should say that I let the stress get to me. Mind over matter. Yes, I used to be claustrophobic, but I’ve managed to conquer that with yoga breathing.
Post-MRI, October 19
Just got back from the appointment, 40 minutes of wasted time, plus another hour of registering and waiting at the hospital. Compared to some of my earlier scans, this was a piece of cake. Today I was stoic. More like, let’s just get this done so I can get the hell out of here. While the unseen technician in the control room took pictures of damaged areas in my brain, I distracted myself by thinking about three-syllable words. Hospital, medical, procedure, protected, protective, frustrating, wonderful, fabulous, dangerous, discretion, deliver, demonstrate, democrat. And so on.
As I said earlier I’m in no hurry for the results. I will be summoned to Dr. Doomandgloom’s office to get the news. Happy days.