I have been blessed with very good health. Hospitals and procedures are not something to which I’m accustomed. In Fall of 2010, I was told by my doctor that I needed to get a chest/body MRI done. While I realize an MRI is a major procedure, it’s fairly commonplace. I had an MRI done on my foot once, so no biggie. I was worried more about what we would find versus the actual procedure. WOW. My worry was completely misdirected.
First, the doctor asks if I’m claustrophobic. Why, of course I’m not, I scoff. I’ve been in an underwater submarine to look at pretty fish and coral. I’ve hidden in closets for surprise parties. I’ve driven in very small cars. Piece of cake. Second, the doctor asks me if I’d like a sedative for the procedure. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. As I re-tell this story back at the office, several friends warned me that “you will need valium.” I write them off as weenies.
I arrive at the MRI facility and check in. The nurse outfits me (very painlessly, I should add) with my IV and asks if I am taking a sedative. Certainly not, I proudly boast…it’s just an MRI. Any normal person would see a pattern here. Not me. I’m escorted into the MRI room and I see the machine that sort of resembles a wine chiller on its side. So it’s got THAT going for it. I’m presented with my ear plugs, a cozy blanket and a plastic ball on a tube. “This is your panic button,” the technician explained. “If you are at all nervous, just squeeze the ball and we’ll pull you out.” I grasp it, but I think to myself, obviously I won’t need that….
WRONG.
Oh, don’t misunderstand. It all started out all right. I actually made it through about 14 minutes. But on Minute 15, the machine started closing in on me like a rolling kaleidoscope. As I clicked in, inch by inch, I started to lose sight of the white, tiled ceiling. Then, I attempted to keep up with the drum-rapping song that beat in my head. Oh wait – that’s not a song, it’s my heart beating faster than microwave popcorn! I can literally feel it in my chest, as my arms are crossed over my heart. I actually thought, “Well, it’s good that I look like I’m in a coffin, because I may just die.” Minute 15:30, I’m squeezing that rubber ball as if I could make it disintegrate and they start to pull me out. Minute 15:50, I’m out and they help me back to the waiting area to calm down.
At this point, I agree to the sedative. One problem: it’s only 1 milligram and my anxiety level is now at a gazillion milligrams. But I take it anyway, and being the oh-so-patient patient, I quiz the nurses, techs and my husband: “Is it working?!...What should I feel like?!?...Will I know when it kicks in?!?...Will I feel groggy?!?!...How long does this take?!” If you’d like to set my diatribe to music, I suggest using “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” as your music bed. I tried one more time, but to no avail.
Needless to say, my mission was scrubbed faster than the Space Shuttle getting yanked from Houston’s Johnson Space Center. I looked at my arm, where the nurse had so skillfully inserted the painless IV, only to find a coaster-sized, blue-red bruise around the insertion area where I had squeezed myself even harder than I had squeezed the panic ball.
So what did I learn from this? Well, I learned that an Open MRI is the way to go. I learned that Valium (20 mgs to be exact) is my friend. And I learned that I’ll probably never have a career as a Chilean Miner. In the end, all involved are healthy and happy (except maybe for that little panic ball – I WAS pretty abusive…).
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