I had an MRI this afternoon. Um, why did no one explain to me what I was signing up for? That’s what friends are for… supposedly. Friends don’t let a sista get an MRI without warning her.
So I blithely showed up early, filled out the requisite forms, and waited patiently for my turn. Took almost a half hour before they called me. No worries; I was fine, or so I thought. Read a bit, looked at TV a bit, people-watched a bit.
The guy comes out and calls my name, oblivious to the fact that I am right behind him and have said: “Here!” at least four times. He finally gets a clue.
Him: Why didn’t you answer?
Me: I did, four times.
Him: You spoke too softly!
Me: *whispers* That would explain it… right?
I get into the changing room and divest myself of all things metallic and of anything else, except what is needed to keep my lady bits covered. Two stunning blue gowns later, I’m ready for my close-up, so I sit just outside the chamber of soon-to-be-horrors. Again: why nobody warn a sista?
Me: How long will this take?
Him: Oh, about 25 minutes.
Huh? I clearly had not given this matter the thought it merited.
A lady from Guyana, who also works there and whom the guy tells me is from “Ghana” *rolls eyes*, gets me up on the gurney and gives me little Play-doh thingys for my ears. Once I lie down and they begin to shuttle me slowly into this cavern, I realize that this thing is really small. I seem to just be able to fit, and I’m a size 4. What the heck do really big people do?
“Just squeeze this ball if you want to sneeze or cough,” she says, placing the “trigger” in my hand. Um, hello? Just the thought of wanting to sneeze or cough is making me want to sneeze AND cough.
And off we go! The top of the apparatus is easily less than two inches from my forehead. Whose idea was this? You know, I never considered myself claustrophobic, but I was today.
Then the noise began. Really, whose idea was this? First loud, insistent, almost deafening beeps; then it’s like a construction crew was let loose in the room. Then they combined, and parts of it really sounded cool for a while. Might have potential in a hip-hop song. But at least it got my mind off of the claustro feeling for a minute.
The machine is vibrating, and not in a good way. Lord, help me, is all I can pray. (Hey, that rhymes! Unplanned, but cool!) I start to think of music, but kinda morbid stuff keeps coming to the surface, like “Abide With Me.” I’m losing my mind! Then I think of when we do “corpse pose” at the end of yoga class. Well, baby, here’s to the real deal “corpse pose”; I literally feel like I am in my coffin. So my mind goes to seeing my dad at the viewing the day of his funeral. Oh Lord, please don’t let me start to cry in here!
I close my eyes and wonder what would happen if one of the Play-doh ear stops fell out. Well, I’d have to press the trigger, which would mean I’d be pulled out of my coffin and then be reinserted. Not a welcome thought. Then I felt myself sort of dozing off and wanted to yawn. Is a yawn up there with a sneeze and a cough as grounds to press the trigger? I yawn twice in a constricted sort of way, and water starts to run out of both eyes. Y’all know I wanted to wipe my eyes like crazy. More prayer. This is one struggle that I was not embracing well.
Then the guy asks me through the mini-speaker at the top of the coffin: “How are we doing?” How in bloody hell do you think I’m doing? I’m one-sixteenth of an inch away from a nervous breakdown! However, I politely answered: “Fine!”
About five minutes later, the noise and clamor cease and I feel myself being pulled forward to open space. Free at last! I have never been so glad to move from a lying position. You know I love to sleep.
So I get back to the changing room and try to open the locker where I had secured my personal effects. The key breaks off in the lock. So I have to wait another 15 minutes for them to get someone to open the locker. I’m still in my brilliant blue gowns.
Once they got it all sorted, I fled from that place like a bat out of hell. Still traumatized! For consolation I went to Floyd to get my hair cut. I was looking a bit grannified with my teeny-weeny afro going gray indiscriminately and sprouting off on its own. I do feel like singing “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft” by the Carpenters (you who grew up in the late 70s might remember that tune) when I look at the shape of my head with this haircut (hey, no pictures for you guys to laugh at), but this, too, will pass. I slightly resemble Paul from the movie that came out earlier this year. I’m claiming Romans 8:28 on this one. I’ll look better by Saturday. I better…
But, hey, at least I’m not in that coffin! And you people who have had an MRI should have brought me up to speed beforehand. Shame! LOL!
Aug 9, 2011
That’s what friends should be for…
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