117. Unnecessary MRI

On a Sunday morning, before 9 am too. I didn’t stop going to church for nothing, you know. It was that getting up in the morning, after a Saturday job too. I needed one lie-in and Church lost out - as it would have anyway as I became more sceptical.

Version 1: I am claustrophobic. The mere idea of being required to lie motionless for a long time in a long dark tunnel where noises are so loud, you can’t hear your comforting music, is horrifying. You can’t tune out into a meditation or so anything but try hard not to panic and ignore each surge of horror with each thought of what’s it doing to me? Diarrhoea in the morning; unable to swallow yet desperate for sips of water. Jerky conversations in the waiting room; sitting hunched with cold like an old lady. Obsessive clock-watching - they said 8.50, it’s 8.52. They did say I’d arrived didn't they? Anything not to be alone with my terrified thoughts of The Tunnel. Don’t think about being injected with dye - it might not happen. Don’t think about it. Stand up and pace around. I can’t do this. It’s not necessary. I’m fine. It’s not bloody fair.

Noooooooooooo sob sob

The Reality: I’m claustrophobic and required to lie motionless for up to 90 minutes. I have half my lorazepam left, prescribed to ensure no panic during chemotherapy. I take a tablet at 8am, then another in the taxi at 8.30. As Trina described them (quoting someone else) “lor-a-ze-daa-aamn .” There’s no buzz - you just feel it’s all ok. Great stuff - if only it weren’t dangerously addictive (the old Ativan scandal of the 1980s, as I recall).  We find our way up an iffy lift and through the maze of corridors. I joke with the receptionist about never finding our way out again, complete a form and wait. A delightful young man comes to fetch me. I’m suitably dressed (no metal bits) and I’ve brought my cashmere bed socks as I know I’ll get cold feet (not that kind). I leave my bag (that’s a first) and watch with Dennis who has nothing to do but fret now.
The vein in my arm lets me down. Ouch. Nice long bruise there. The vein in my hand lets me down. Probably it’s protesting after months of misuse, it was getting used to a rest. Yep, a bump and a bruise later. That one hurt.  He’s only allowed two goes so he goes to fetch the radiologist. Next vein is blocked. I ask if they could use my feet as I’ve some good ones there - they aren’t keen on feet.
I say it’s a good job needles don’t bother me but the building could be on fire and I’d take it in my stride.
Andy, the radiologist, decides to go ahead and get the basics done and have a further try later. They turn on my CD (a carefully chosen relaxation tape that I won’t tap my feet to). Then I’m drawn into the tunnel, a neck support keeping my chin up and a helmet giving me a periscope view of my legs and the room - optical illusions at their best.

And the banging begins. Some of it has an appealing rhythm like a slow bass guitar. Some clang or grind or make my teeth shake in their sockets. Why bother taking ‘music?’ I reckon I hear her voice 4 times, briefly, in the 40 minutes. In the meantime, I just do my own relaxation moves and chill. Occasionally I open my eyes to show an interest in my knees but mostly I’m intrigued by the noises and what they signify,

I’m rolled back out so Andy can inject the dye. He loses patience and gives up far too easily but assures me he has clear enough images to be able to do without it. Am I going to complain?? Only if results are inconclusive and I have to have another!  Then it’s up, remove the headphones (the only painful bit apart from the blood flops) and back to normal. Down to Costa for half a muffin and a cuppa. Then another 12 quid for a cab.

All I have to do now is get Dennis through the next 12 days. Discharge awaits....

And another FIRST notched up. Well done me :)