Redneck MRI

Ok. So I go today for an MRI. I have submitted my insurance card for copying and completed my paperwork in a timely manner like the prepared, efficient patient and am waiting patiently in the waiting room for my name to be called. Then I hear it, "Bonnie?" Ugh! Oh well, I'm used to that. I don't make a fuss; I just get up and follow the nice young lady across the waiting room. Hey, wait, isn't the door that way? I continue to follow her...outside. Huh? Maybe it's in the building next door. I continue to follow her down the sidewalk, all the while thinking...this must be what little kids feel like. You're just told to follow along, not knowing exactly where you are going. But she didn't even hold my hand. We continue down the sidewalk, passing many available doors to the inside. We're running out of sidewalk. I obediently continue to follow this woman whom I am beginning to think might be lost. Then we finally reach the end of the sidewalk, and there it is. A trailer! No, I'm not kidding. It was a building on wheels. A mobile medical something or other. Was I surprised? Yeah, a little.

Anyway, I enter the trailer and look around to familiarize myself with this medical mystery...on wheels. Did I mention that? Anyway, there are a couple of cabinets, a desktop with two computer screens, two desk chairs, and to the left a rather large, thick door behind which resides "the tunnel." "Please remove all metal," spoken by the technician, snaps me back into the moment. "You can put your things in the cabinet behind the curtain," she said rather flatly. Ok, I think to myself. I can do that. Off come the wedding rings, out come the keys, stripped are the unmentionables with the underwire. Hmmm, I think that should do it. Then, I peek out from behind the curtain to politely inquire about my denim shorts with the metal button. "Oh. There's a gown in the cabinet; you should probably put that on," was the technician's reply. YA THINK?! What if she had let me enter the tunnel of doom with a metal button? Sheesh. I don't want to think about it. But I digress. As I am removing the last piece of "shrapnel" from my person, I am suddenly profoundly thankful that I only pierced my ears during what we'll call my "Stupid Years." And that I have yet to require a metal plate in my head. Anyway, once all "gowned up" and somewhat apprehensive about what is coming up next, I peel the curtain back and re-enter the "office portion" of the treatment trailer. (Only one step away, mind you. I think it's a single wide.) The nice lady dressed in the scrubs escorts me into the "tunnel" room. There it is...big and round and white and a little ominous looking. I guess I brought a little apprehension to keep me company, as a friend of mine who has also had an MRI lately was given Valium. We won't get into how that is SO not fair.

I am then told to lie down on what looks like a narrow table, and apparently it is somewhat similar to the belt at the grocery store counter...they are in control of the movement. You, like the loaf of bread and sack of potatoes, are simply along for the ride. So I lie down. "Scoot up, please," she requested, "A little more...good." She hands me two orange ear plugs, and says, "Here, you may want these." Then she proceeds to hand me this squishy thing-a-ma-jig that resembles the squeeze end of a blood pressure cuff. She informs me that during the procedure, I can squeeze it if I need her. Why would I need her? I wonder to myself. Then she shines a laser to "line me up" and sends me head-first into the "tunnel." I begin with my eyes closed so that I cannot immediately see how closed in I am, but it's kinda like Christmas...you can't help but peek. But with just one eye. Ok, there's a little head room. And a nice little breeze in the "tunnel." This is not so bad. Then I hear a voice, that with the ear plugs inserted, sounds tiny and far, far away, "Ok, Mrs. Victory, here we go. Be very still, please." Be still. Who's she kidding? There's not a lot of wiggle room. I begin to wonder, what happens if your nose itches or you get a cramp or you have to sneeze? Will it shoot you out of the "tunnel"? Ok, concentrate; be still.

Then it begins...the most obnoxious decibel-shattering, ear-splitting, migraine-inducing sort of noise you can imagine. I don't think I put the ear plugs in deep enough. I have little ears, which proportionately has nothing to do with my actual hearing. I have good hearing. Or I used to. Apparently I just didn't squish the plugs small enough to fit properly. Oh my gosh. Just when you think your last nerve has been jiggled loose by the crescendo of the jack-hammering, bad techno pop, and the off-the-hook phone, the noise stops. Momentarily. The most annoying sound is the "ANH ANH ANH" that sounds like you left your phone off the hook, and it is SO LOUD that someone three towns away steps out onto the porch and bellows, "Hey Motard!!! Hang up your phone!!!" I quickly consider my options: I can scoot out of here like a little inchworm and then I am seriously considering squeezing the squishy thingy in my hand, but I don't. I am somewhat curious as to what would happen. Will it set off some alarm that will signal her that I've had enough? Will she roll me out on the conveyor belt and give me a hug? Or will she, in that tiny, far away voice tell me, "Please suck it up, Mrs. Victory; we're almost finished." None of my options seem appealing. So I say it to myself, "Suck it up, Bronie; it'll be over soon and you can go home to your family. You will never be able to hear what they are saying again, but perhaps we can all learn sign language. And Jay will have to get up with the baby and answer the phone because you won't be able to hear them, and the doorbell..."

Sigh. I made it. I got to experience the head-first version, and then the feet-first scenario. Who knows? Maybe I won't have to do this again. But I can add it to my list of things I've experienced and be able to intelligently discuss it with someone who might be facing a "tunnel" of their own.

As I exited the mobile medical something or other, I thanked the nice lady. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear her. I came home to my family, and wouldn't you know it, my hearing returned almost immediately. "Mom, can you get me a drink?" "Honey, is there any sweet tea?" "WAAAHHH! I don't neena nap!" "Why can't I have more computer time?" "Coo, pbbbssstttthhhh, ackh!"

Yep, I can hear, and sometimes it's noisy like a jack-hammer, a little annoying like the "anh anh anh" of the phone, but mostly it's beautiful and precious, and it's good to be home.