MRI's Suck

This morning I had an MRI on my knee and hip. I'm not sure if you've ever had this done, but let me be the first one to tell you that the procedure is freaky. Coming into the room, there was a huge machine that truly looked like it could take off into outer space. They had me strip into my underwear and I got to wear those attractive ass-showing gowns. As I climbed into the machine, I told myself that it wouldn't be that bad and to just breathe. But I could feel my heart pounding as the machine rolled me deeper into the tube. Luckily, I was able to keep my head out of the machine, being as only my knee and hip were being examined. The attendant left the room and turned on the machine. It was amazing how alone and cold I felt. There was a timer that I could barely see that gave a read out on how much longer it would last. But I quickly figured out that the timer only displayed how much longer there was in the round of examining, not for the overall MRI. The machine made extremely loud noises and I had to wear ear plugs to try and dampen the sound. I had to stay perfectly still, not moving a muscle, in order to get an accurate reading. My knee was strapped in and the electromagnetic field rumbled.

As I laid there, trying not to freak myself out, I kept trying to imagine the noises as music to a Bjork, Air, or Imogen Heap record. Or better yet, a sound track to a Ray Bradbury or H.G. Wells novel, the huge machine and ominous blue light shining from within the tube acting as an appropriate setting. I tried my best to keep my mind of what was happening. I tried praying, but gave up quickly after imagining that the machine's magnetic forces acted as a barrier between the prayers and my Creator. I didn't know what would be better, to stare at the timer and watch it count down or close my eyes and not pay attention to it. Every time the timer got to zero I hoped and urged the attendant to come in and tell me I was done. This feeling happened 6 times, each time ending in disappointment as the machine began to shake and rumble again. I didn't want to move at all, for fear that I would mess up the reading and have to do it again; of course, thinking that I couldn't move made very part of my body itch. Waiting, I tried thinking of a young, courageous girl I know. We'll call her "Kay."

I first met Kay last year, in my class. On the first day of school, I asked the students to tell and the class their name and one interesting fact about them (how teachery of me, I know). I could tell by her bald head and short stature that she had been through chemotherapy, yet I was surprised when it was her turn and she proudly proclaimed, "My name is Kay, and I had brain cancer." Throughout the year, I was shocked how enthusiastically and openly she talked about it. Obviously, she didn't enjoy having cancer, but she seemed to accept it, like a short person would accept being short. Kay and I (and most of the other teachers) built a bond. Because of her personality and spirit, you couldn't help but love her.

Yesterday, I was talking to another teacher in the halls, who Kay was hanging out with. I informed the other teacher and Kay that I would be heading in for an MRI the following day. That's when Kay looked up at me, and quietly said, "I hate MRI's." It was touchingly real. Here was a 13 year old, who had brain cancer and probably had to have 20 MRI's (all the way in the tube, no doubt) and I was complaining about one.

So there I was this morning, up to my shoulders in a freaky and loud tube, thinking about Kay. She helped me pass the time. She helped me be calm. I hope that I can have a sliver of her resiliency.