Here we go again.
Like pretty much any MSer, I have to sign up for brain MRI scans
regularly, usually from one to three times a year.
This year’s edition is set for this week.
Normally, the MRI is fairly routine for me. I admit: It can
be mind-numbingly boring and challenge my ability to remain completely still
for 45-75 minutes (depending on whether they scan the spine or just the brain).
Mostly, I try to zone out a bit and count it as a time of
rest, despite the clanging and banging that starts and stops and starts and
stops – seemingly without stopping.
Last year was
different.
My neurologist’s practice is based in a major university
hospital, which means the MRIs are done there as well. That also means medical
students may participate in the tests.
And so they did.
There I was, confined inside the big booming tunnel, with
the “Silence of the Lambs” face cage strapped on.
“This next scan lasts three minutes,” the technician said. “Then
we’ll come in and give you the contrast injection before the next one.”
Essentially
blindfolded inside the MRI tunnel, I waited out the scan.
“Boom – boom – boom!
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Rum – rum – rum.
Boom
– boom – boom!
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Rum – rum – rum.
Boom – boom – boom!
Bzzzt.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Rum – rum – rum.”
Then the room grew still for a few seconds.
Suddenly, I felt someone take my right arm and roll up my
sleeve.
“Here we go,” a man said.
He snapped a rubber strap around my arm. Then the poking
started.
After a couple dozen jabs, I heard two more voices.
“Let me try,” said a woman. “I can get it.”
The needle stabbing continued.
At last, a third person tried to find the vein and
administer the contrast dye.
"There it is," he added.
By now, both arms throbbed. I could hardly wait to roll out
of the MRI tube and check out the damages.
The MRI is called a
non-intrusive medical test.
Now I beg to differ.
For about two weeks afterwards, I wore long-sleeved shirts, just so my loved ones wouldn’t try to stage an intervention. I had clumsy needle tracks running up and down my arms.
For about two weeks afterwards, I wore long-sleeved shirts, just so my loved ones wouldn’t try to stage an intervention. I had clumsy needle tracks running up and down my arms.
I sure hope those medical students managed to pass their classes and move on.
Oh, wait –
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