The MRIThe MRI
A few months ago I had to go in for an MRI on my left shoulder. I really didn’t think too much about it, I mean, I’ve had MRI’s before and survived so I was okay with it. That being said, know that when my head MRI was taking place I seriously considered, while buried alive and having a freeway built over me, disassembling the entire machine and seeing myself out.
After that horror I thought the shoulder MRI would be a breeze.
It was a thought that turned out to be utter bullshit.
I walk into the MRI room, same room I had been in before, and found myself wondering what kind of grease to force ratio would to be used to get my big claustrophobic self into that little opening.
I laid on the too narrow table and the nice technician got me set up by strapping me down and putting some rigid contraption on my shoulder. Remember how I’m claustrophobic?
I’m all set up, the table starts moving and…
I reached out of the machine with my right hand and grabbed the outside of the machine to stop everything because there was no way that this thing was happening. The technician asked me if I was sure I wanted to stop.
Lady, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
She proceeded to tell me that 98% of people can’t finish the shoulder MRI. You can make that 99.
I thanked her for being patient with my refusal to be squeezed into the equivalent of a giant magnetic vagina, grabbed my stuff and left without an ounce of shame.
Luckily I was rescheduled for the bigger MRI machine (didn’t know there was one) and a dose of Valium. It’s amazing how a little pill can take you from “There’s no way I’m getting in that thing” to “I think I’ll just have my mail delivered here."
The next time I have an MRI appointment and get the chance to reprise my role as Augustus-Stuck-In-The-Pipe from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, I’ll make sure that I am ridiculously unsober for the event.