MRI experience

MRI
Several months ago when I resolved to open myself to new experiences, I wasn’t thinking of an MRI. When the doctor told me in December that I would need an MRI to determine the extent of injury to my shoulder, I decided to put it off until the New Year.

I have never had an MRI, but I thought I knew what to expect after talking to friends who lived through the procedure. I wasn’t really afraid. I mean if it wasn’t painful I surely could handle it. I’m pretty stoic when it comes to medical procedures. I had a baby during the natural childbirth era sans epidural. I suffered through a colonoscopy in 1978 with no anesthetic. I could surely handle an MRI that involved no pain or discomfort.

The person who called to set up the insurance payment and confirm the time and place asked if I was claustrophobic. “No, no,” I assured her--and myself. I pride myself on having no irrational fears or phobias. Perfect mental health here. Although, I read a true story once about a girl buried alive (ultimately rescued) but the image was seared in my mind and remains my number one least favorite way to die.

I arrived at the office where I had been many times before with my mother and with Jim. Familiar surroundings. Filled out the papers. All no’s. Good so far. The questions most repeated: “Are you claustrophobic?” and “Do you have any foreign material in your body.?” No, no and no.

The technician gets me settled on the comfortable table, gets me the blanket I request. I am ready for a 20 minute nap—toasty and warm—no pain, not even any discomfort.
“Have you ever had an MRI?” she asks handing me earplugs.

I’ve worn ear plugs on numerous occasions, being a former swimmer. But these earplugs were inefficient, not ergonomically designed to fit the human ear canal—at least not mine. I inserted them, head cocked, attempting to create a seal against the noise I had been told to expect. The technician stood patiently beside me while I twisted and turned in vain.

“These aren’t going to work,” I said.”Maybe some cotton?” I really thought a Kleenex wetted with spit and twisted into a funnel shape would be better, but I didn’t want her to think me odd. The cotton didn’t work so I tried the earplugs again and shoved them in the best I could.

“O.K.,” she said. “Here we go.”

The machine was making some noise already—a rhythmic sound not entirely unpleasant which I assumed (correctly) would be louder once I was entombed. Tolerable-I thought.
“Do you want the fan off or on?” the disembodied voice comes from afar.
Oh.Oh. Tough decision. Will I suffocate if it’s off? Or is off preferable to the cool breeze I feel blowing around my face.
“Off,” I answer trying not to think of the buried-alive-girl.
Fan off. Blanket on. Deep breathing. Ready for my nap.
An alarm sounds. Not just an alarm—a fog horn, signaling what? A Malfunction of the machine? A fire in the building? A nuclear emergency?

“Be calm,” I tell myself. “It will stop or someone will come to get you out.” Neither happens.

I wave my hand. “Hello? Is this supposed to be happening? What’s going on?”

The voice again--removed and distant.
“Yes, that’s the sound you’re going to hear.”
No way. “Can I come out for a minute?”

She slides me out or rather the machine spits me out. “I had no idea the sound was going to be that loud and noxious.I think I’ll try ear phones with music.”

“Sorry, we don’t have those here. Do you want to try again? Well have to start over.”

I know what to expect now. Surely I can do this. I am not claustrophobic, I repeat I am not claustrophobic.

The sounds start anew. I am relaxed, going with the flow. Pray, I think. The fog horn stops. Ten second respite. I am assaulted by an army of angry woodpeckers. “Rat-a-tat-tat, Rat-a-tat-tat.”

I forget about praying. I remember that I am easily distracted by noises. Some kind of mental deficiency allowing me to focus on only one thing at a time. I wore earplugs during most of my dormitory years. Having grown up in a very quiet home as an only child I was a light sleeper easily awakened by any noise. A noisy furnace. A dripping faucet. Cicadas on a summer night. I can’t listen to music when I study or TV when I write. Sensory overload. Why did I think I would be able to nap in this thing when I can’t sleep in a room with ticking clock?

The woodpeckers stop. The basketball buzzer starts. Wait there are undertones—sounds like Froggy twanging his magic twanger. Wonder if I have some other kind of phobia, something they should list on the questionare? Maybe I have acousticophobia? No I’m not really afraid of the noises—I just don’t like them.

Peace. Temporarily.

New sound. A single propeller plane preparing for take-off. Distant machine guns accompanied by a tuning fork—yep an A natural. No, I’m sure it’s a B flat. Wonder if I have perfect pitch? No one’s ever noticed, but I’m sure that’s a B flat. What’s that tapping in my ear? Sound like it’s inside not out. Did I forget about some lingering piece of metal imbedded somewhere in my body about to be pulled through the skin by the powerful magnetic field? Maybe mercury fillings or gold caps? I have a lot of them.

Can’t someone improve this machine so that it does its work in silence? I’d like to know the mechanics that cause the sound in magnetic resonance imaging. Resonance. Sound waves. That’s it. Sound waves are bouncing off something giving them a picture of my insides.

The voice comes again. “Almost through. We need to repeat one test. It will only take about four minutes.”

Hope it’s the tuning fork. Not the basketball buzzer.