MRI Designer Should Design Airline Seats

by Maggan

in Diagnosis,Doctor's Appointment,MRI

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It is strange to begin one’s day by driving to the “Magnolia Cancer Center. ”

“This place cannot be for me,” I think. My husband admits that he, too, gets a jolt at the sight of the large blue sign with white text. The cafeteria, the halls, and the waiting rooms are filled, mostly with old people. They appear to be in bad shape, moving with difficulty at a glacial pace. Their complexions are ashen or waxy, their expressions gloomy.  Did cancer or old age bring them down? Will I be the same once treatments set in?

The MRI turns out not to be scary.  I had feared claustrophobia, scared of being stuffed alive  in a steel coffin. I also worried about not being able to move at all for the better part of an hour. But the design of the big turbo machine turns out to be ingenious. Who ever came up with the design should be contacted by the airlines to re-design their chairs for better comfort.

I lie on stomach with both my boobs hanging down through two holes. My arms are held forward in a diving position. My forehead rests on a foam cushioned ledge covered by a soft cloth. My legs are bent by the knees, my ankles and shins rest on a cushion. My pelvis and stomach are firmly pressed downward but without discomfort. The room is cool, but I am covered by a warm cotton blanket. I do not have the slightest urge to even wiggle my toes during the whole procedure.

A dye is administered through a needle in my left hand. The liquid flows through my veins like a chilly breeze. The machine makes clanking sounds, like old radiators. Then it changes its “tune” and makes a fast, clicking metallic sound. How could this possibly give them perfect pictures of the inside of my boobs, slice by slice? I will never understand and I regret having spent my whole life ignoring anything science.

I am alone in the room, but hold a rubber bulb in my hand. Through a speaker I am told, by the tech outside,  to squeeze the rubbery thing should I need anything. I hold my rubber bulb, but don’t squeeze it, not once. I am perfectly fine. But as I lie there, I think of torture victims. How perfectly terrifying would it not be to be left alone in a cool room with a low ceiling and giant steel contraption without knowing why, left in a room without a rubber bulb to squeeze and where nobody would care about your screams.  How frightening to be stuffed in a machine designed to hurt you, monitored by evil people, not people who want your best!

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