After registering and receiving my ID bracelet, which is lazily placed obnoxiously loose, I find myself in a waiting room full of elderly people requiring wheelchairs, oxygen, and assistance from family members. I silently pray that I one day reach such an age. Other than a bizarre head and neck cancer that was surgically excised three and a half years ago, I’ve been remarkably healthy. I arrive early and anticipate a wait. I brought the novel Rick Moody suggested, despite the fact that I almost never read fiction. Still, I’m always willing to try new things. I glance around the room and find it amusing that I am both the youngest person here and the only one not looking at a phone.
Three pages later, my name is called.That was quick.A nice gentleman in blue scrubs – about 5’8”, blue eyes, gray hair, still youngish-looking, greets me with an easy smile and leads me back. As we weave through the maze of hallways in a hospital that was once so familiar to me, I ask if I can stop at the restroom.“Sure,” he says. “It’s right here. Take your time.”“baby bladder”, I say. When I emerge, he’s holding my identification stickers.“I couldn’t help but notice,” he says, glancing at my date of birth, “you don’t look 47 one bit.”I laugh.“Thanks.”“I probably shouldn’t be saying that.” He says“No,” I say giggling. “It’s fine. You can say it all you want” We arrive at the mobile MRI trailer outside the hospital. This is where I always have my scans. I like consistency. Same machine. Same location. Same radiology group reading the images.
Below my right ear the MRI tech places a sticky “tag” with a marker to identify the site of my previous surgery to remove the cancer. I lie flat and look up at the ceiling panels above me: a light blue sky with puffy clouds and flowering trees bursting with pink and red blossoms.It looks remarkably similar to the day outside…..86 degrees. Sunny. A light breeze….Perfection.
The MRI technologist is kind and reassuring. He explains that I’ll need an IV for contrast. A blue tourniquet is placed around my left arm. Not nearly as tight as I know it needs to be.“just a little bite”, he states…The 22 gauge needle pierces the sensitive skin of my left antecubital fossa. Sharp teeth, I thought.“Sorry,” he says as he advances a little deeper.Then I hear the familiar snap of the needle retracting.I glance toward the catheter. No blood return…“I have to take it out. I’m sorry.“It’s okay,” I say. “This happens all the time. Nobody ever gets me on the first stick.”Maybe I should stop manifesting that to the universe.“Where do they usually get you?” he asks. This isn’t usual… I think to myself. I point to my right arm.“I just had bloodwork there yesterday. She said it was a good vein. Just a little deep.”Another tourniquet. Still not tight enough.“Here we go.”Another little bite. This time the needle enters my right arm. I wait for something encouraging. Instead he immediately withdraws.“I’m bailing,” he says.Then he adds, “I need reinforcement.“Reinforcement?” My supervisor.”I anxiously laugh, “Your supervisor does IVs?” In my experience, supervisors are people who no longer get their hands dirty. A few moments later an energetic man appears.“You didn’t bring your good veins today,” he says with a huge smile.“I don’t HAVE good veins to bring.” I respond.He studies both arms. An uncapped saline flush that was resting on my blanket rolls onto the table my right arm rests on. I kindly, yet nervously ask him to please not use that on me. He picks it up, analyzing it while rotating it left and right, likely annoyed. “Ah, no cap, he says, that’s the problem”. Quickly replacing it. Then he warns me.“My tourniquet is going to be exceptionally tight.” The blue rubber tourniquet practically disappears into my upper arm. He reinforces it with a second one 5-6 inches below on my forearm and examines both my antecubital veins and the veins on the back of my hand.“Ah the ol double tourniquet”, I say. ”Here we go” He says, Stab, into the same right antecubital area. Nothing. Out it comes. “The hand looks good,” he says.I look and agree. I don’t need a power injector for this scan. The hand should work just fine. I wish they’d started there from the beginning. Finally, 4 sticks later, I can breathe. The sensation of the cool saline flush travels up my arm, into my chest, and somehow into the blood vessels of my tongue. I can taste it. That means it’s in. I look up. MRI tech on left and supervisor on right they each take an earplug and shoving them into respected ears. Finally, a cage-like enclosures is placed over my face and I am slowly transported into the tunnel. The MRI begins. The sounds are bizarre and oddly musical, like the opening sequence of a Pink Floyd song.
Beep.Beep.Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. Rrrr. Rrrr. Rrrr. Soon my brain begins composing its own soundtrack.Ba ba ba ba ba. Bang. Bang. Bang….”Onomatopoeia!” I think to myself…I wish he hadn’t just warned me not to swallow or cough during the scan. My mouth begins to accumulate with my own saliva…Forty-five minutes later, the test is complete.The tech walks me toward the exit and gives me directions even though I worked at this hospital for more than fifteen years.“Thank you,” I say anyway. I step outside into the warm, June sunshine. The MRI is over. Now comes the hardest part, stage two of scanxiety. The what ifs. The waiting. The checking of email. The refreshing of patient portals. The bargaining. The worry. The rabbit holes. Until the moment the future becomes the present and uncertainty has a name……
