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Humorous Essay
Marylou I. Hess
5115 Pine Grove Terrace South
Gulfport, Florida 33707-4358
Phone: (727) 328-7788 (h) (727) 642-8115
email: HessMlou@worldnet.att.net
www.marylouihess.com
Word Count: 1,475 words
Calming Your MRI Fears
As the 50-year / 500,000-mile warranty expired; so did the chassis of my body, my spine.
Chiropractic adjustments, massage therapy, analgesics, anti-inflammatories and over-the-counter pain
relievers helped little. When my complaining became unbearable, my doctor ordered an MRI.
“Magnetic Resonance Imaging,” he explained, “is a non-invasive procedure that merges magnets and
radio waves.”
I flinched.
“It’s a fifteen-minute exploratory tool,” he said.
By my appointment time, the pain was so intense I couldn’t sit. I crawled into the taxi. A sudden
lurch almost propelled me from the backseat; luckily, my middle-age spread was sufficient ballast to
prevent a launch. Ten minutes later, we jolted to a halt. Thirteen bucks. I prayed so much during the ride,
I chalked it up as a religions experience and wondered if it was tax-deductible.
The waiting area décor consisted of chipped, yellowed linoleum, hard, mismatched chairs and a metal
library rack with Highlights for Children from the previous century. The staff discussed the time--three
o’clock on Friday and the clubs they would visit after work. I listened for ninety-two minutes.
Finally, a dark-haired girl rose and ordered me to follow her.
“You can wear earplugs or listen to music,” she said.
“That’s okay.”
“You have to choose,” she said, sprinting down a corridor. “The noise from the magnets will hurt your
ears.” She turned a corner.
“Music,” I called, hobbling. As I reached the corner, I saw her duck into a room. I followed.
Eventually.
There it was—an intimidating quantity of white metal and plastic molded into an encasement taller
than me and longer than my car. In contrast to its massiveness, a slender gurney on a track extended from
a miniscule circular opening, dead center. I peered inside. The patient area was smaller than the metal
morgue drawers on Perry Mason.
“Hop up,” a cute, petite blonde said.
Pain shot through my sacrum joint as I climbed onto the track. Then I spotted the seatbelt. She
strapped me in tighter than a roller coaster rider at Busch Gardens. Being restrained inside equipment I
had no way to exit, was frightening and humiliating. The brunette handed me earmuff-style headsets.
My thoughts raced as the MRI slowly swallowed me--head first. The comparison to a coffin was not
totally fair—there’s more airspace between the face of the deceased and the lid.
The movement stopped, but the panic accelerated. I barely fit inside—the white plastic panels were
less than two inches from my nose. The blonde said, “It’s only twenty minutes. Don’t laugh or the film won’
t be any good and we’ll have to retake it.” As if anyone other than Fortunato in Edgar Allen Poe’s The Cask
of Amontillado had laughed while buried alive.
I feared the party-minded girls would abandon me to start their weekend early. I realized there
wasn’t enough air inside to breathe that long. How many panels would I have to smash to get out? The
magnets might be large. I should close my eyes when shattering out the panel over my face. Then I
realized I couldn’t move my arms high enough up to break the panels. I yelled, “Get me out of this thing!”
“Okay,” she said. Finally, after waiting at least three full o-n-e—t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d—o-n-e seconds, my
body slowly exited the entombment. There wasn’t much air left and I was using it at a rapid rate. The
gurney inched me closer to safety. My forehead cleared the white casket. I inhaled a deep breath,
unlatched the seatbelt and slid out.
“Wait,” someone said.
Yeah. Right.
“It’s okay,” the woman said. “You had claustrophobia.”
“Yes.” I’d have admitted to being the Boston Strangler to get out.
“I thought you were going to crawl right out of there,” the blond girl said.
Hmmm, crawl out. Hadn’t thought of that. I ambled to the reception area.
“Have your doctor prescribe Valium,” the brunette said. “You can make another appointment.”
“Yes. I do need Valium.” Right now. Not that I was ever going to be buried alive again, at least not
voluntarily.
In the back of the taxi, I felt such relief that I had survived the experience, even if technically I
had failed to have an MRI.
At home, I called my doctor’s assistant. Instead of gushing sympathy, she gave a little puff of air
out her nose to show her annoyance. “You’ll have to call the Open MRI center.” She gave me the phone
number.
That Monday afternoon, I dressed in clothes with no metal. I wore clean underwear just in case. I
prepared myself spiritually. While I waited for the taxicab, I read a few pages from Harold Kushner’s
When Bad Things Happen to Good People.
In contrast to the terror of the other office, the open MRI center exuded peace. Pleasant
professionals worked in the ambience and décor of a palatial parlor with mahogany furniture, woven rugs
and comfy stuffed chairs. With Southern hospitality, Sue Ann and Harold provided, before and after the
ordeal, a variety of cookies, crackers, coffee, sweet tea and soda –at no charge.
I completed the Patient Safety Screening Form, solemnly attesting my body contained no metal
plates, pins, screws, nails, clips or permanent eyeliner. I answered questions concerning bridgework,
dentures, hearing aids, pregnancy and if I had metal in my eye.
Sue Ann escorted me to the dressing room. “That’s the magnet room.” She pointed to the chamber of
horrors.
Who could be afraid of the magnet room? I felt silly for wanting to sprint for my life. Besides, I
had to go through with this. I didn’t want my boss to think I was faking to avoid work. I didn’t want the
doctor to think it was psychosomatic.
A sign in the dressing area said that cell phones, hearing aids, watches and other electronic
equipment would be ruined in the magnet room. My pulse raced. Sue Ann whispered, “The secret is to close
your eyes when you lie down and keep them closed until its over.”
The open MRI had a table that slid sideways into the center of the equipment. Suspended a couple of
inches above the person was a massive circular apparatus that looked as if it was designed specifically to
squish a person flatter than a Palmetto bug.
In I went – eyes closed. Being short, my head did not stick out the end as the words “open MRI”
seemed to promise. However, there was a roomful of air on my right side.
I prayed for the strength of the nuts and bolts holding the steel machine together. I prayed for the
giant magnets above me. I prayed Sue Ann and Harold wouldn’t drop dead leaving me stuck in there.
I prayed for my sanity. I inhaled slow deep breaths and envisioned myself on Seaside beach at
daybreak. Sand squished beneath my sneakers; birds rustled as I awoke them and gentle green water lapped
the shoreline. Then magnets banged and clanged, playing bumper cars around my head, and no beach was in
sight.
Harold entered the room and slid me out. When I ambled out of the magnet room, I looked at the
clock. It had taken forty-five minutes! I was okay, except for tremors and perspiration-drenched
clothes.
Harold checked the ten 14” X 17” films, declared them good. I asked what was wrong with my back.
After insisting he couldn’t read the MRI, he slid out one film. Near the bottom of the image of my spine,
I saw the problem.
“That one’s broken,” I said.
“I can’t legally read these for you,” he said, putting the film back in the envelope.
I returned to the reception area satisfied.
I told the cab driver that I had kept my dignity, while surviving a terror worse than a walk-thru
traveling-circus haunted mansion, located next to a maximum-security prison where there had been a
breakout earlier that day. He asked for $25.
I decided I wanted my medal of valor mailed to my home, to avoid another cab ride.
The MRI revealed a broken disk where the piece had ruptured through and had ventured off. The
wanderer was removed.
When I hit the 100-year/1-million mile mark, I guess another disk will break. But technology will
have improved. Like webcam, we’ll have webMRI. I’ll stand on a lazy Susan in front of my PC. I’ll be
rotated like a turkey on a rotisserie. WebMRI will email the results to spine surgeons close to my home.
After a minor bidding war, the doctor with the first appointment will win.
Otherwise, I’ll schedule the test during naptime. I’ll recline on the track thinking it’s a tanning
booth or a massage table, or with all that white enclosing me, I’ll think it’s my final resting place. Who
knows? I’ll be pleasantly surprised when they slide me out and offer me sweet tea and cookies.
The End.
