4: MRI

Under bright blue-white fluorescence, I slid my blue-teal jean shorts to the ground and stretched my grey tee above my chin and head. Like butter, my index fingers curled inside my black ankle socks, just between the heel and the bony, side protuberance, easing them off to reveal pale feet. I donned the light blue hospital gown, tied the two ends atop my shoulder blades and butt. As the finishing touch, I uncoiled the squishy green plastic bracelet around my wrist, a gold locker key now floating under my palm. (I made a mental note to definitely remove this before entering the machine.)

I locked my clothes up and left the locker, strolling a few yards to the familiar port of screens and swivel chairs. The radiology techs remembered me after some small talk. When I got to the reason I was here (to ensure a circulatory system disorder I had suffered from about five years ago that impeded my ability to walk, among other things, was in remission), a subtle but heavy uneasiness irked me. A scattering of images, like purple-bruised feet and swollen calves, bopped into my mind.

My mood changed from carefree to anxious; fear of a possible relapse poked around my skull. (I thought, “Let’s get this over with, please!”)

*

If magnets are magical (I mean, imagine if apricots in your trail mix suddenly globbed together…?), what does that make MRIs? They’re essentially magnets that see--layers and layers beyond my own eyes’ abilities. When combined with some clear contrast dye, they could illuminate my blood vessels. They could project them as pixels, as hollow rivers in the starry night sky. These wonders of science could tell me what my own body would hide: whether or not my arteries were wide and healthy, or narrow and wounded.

*

This was my fifth or so scan within the previous five years, and I knew the drill. My friendly neighborhood phlebotomist (he resembled Mr. Rogers) wiped my forearm with ethanol, smoothly stuck a cold needle into my (notoriously feisty) veins, and waited near me. He smiled, and I could hear the space-like whizzes emanating from the machine as the current patient was finishing her go. A few more ZZZZs and EEEEETs, and the techs ushered me to the machine. (I thought, again, “Let’s get this over with, please!”)

A gargantuan white cylinder with a hollowed center was my bed for the next forty minutes. I lay onto my back, knees slightly elevated, with a translucent tube connected to my internal tubes. I wore walkman-style headphones (no BOSE, guys?) as the techs conveyor-belted my body into the compact cavern.

“OK, we’re going to start now. You’ll hear some noises. Would you like some music?”

“OK. Yes,” I slightly nodded.

“Rock music OK? And remember, no moving.”

“Sure.”

After a few moments of loud guitar, I shook my head. “Hello? Could I have meditation music instead please?”

I heard some BOPS and TTTTRRRRs in the background, and then some calming, ethereal music. My brain knew the drill. Time to disappear.

*

One of the first complaints the techs gave me in my very first MRI was about my breathing. They had told me to take slow, deep breaths, and then hold my breath when queued. So I did. I shut my eyes. I let all my attention sink into the sounds of the behemoth that enveloped me, and the ebb and flow of air into my nostrils and out of my mouth. My diaphram rose and sunk. Rose and sunk.

“OK, we need you to breathe a little less deeply. We have to get a better picture of your stomach.”

So, I used my lungs more than my belly, but kept the same waning tempo. In and out; TTTTRRRR. TTTTRRRR. EEEEET, EEEEET.

*

Since my initial MRI, I had learned two crucial pearls of procedural wisdom. One: breathe moderately deeply. Two: await some compensatory bliss.

(Have you ever stood up too fast (being sure to not bust your head on a pipe) and felt blood rush into your head? A delicious kind of aliveness?)

Because my brain responded with fear at the thought of my disease wrenching its disabling head once more, sitting inside this whale of an X-ray device wasn’t my favorite pastime. (I’m sure this is similar for many people!) But I found a delightful peace, even euphoria, from the whole experience, which made it all the more bearable--hell, even something to look forward to.

*

Once in a decently deep meditation, about thirty minutes after the music began, the contrast dye was injected like a pneumatic bullet through my system. A warmth drizzled down my back, up through my chest, and released through my brain. The increased pressure--or something--caused a period of about forty-five seconds of complete quiet, and a sense of complete hope for everything in my life. I felt worry-less. I felt like I was floating. I felt orange--pure sunshine (with a trace of gadolinium liquid).

The scan ended soon after, but the elation stayed with me for a few more moments. It continued for a while longer upon seeing my blood vessels on the screen: brilliant white, patent and cheery.

Pre-travel health in order? Check!

July 8, 2016