Memories of my MRI

I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease on (checking calendar) September 14th, 2011.  Almost immediately following that appointment, my Neurologist (suddenly I had a Neurologist) arranged for me to have an MRI.  This would be more of a confirmation of the Parkinson's diagnosis - we weren't really expecting to find anything troubling (and as it turned out, we didn't).

Horrific as this will sound, I found myself hoping the MRI would, however, turn up something.  I was just beginning to learn all about Parkinson's but the few things I'd already learned scared the crap outta me.  First was that there was no "getting over" it.  As I've written a few times already, today is the best I will ever be.  That's ... unsettling.  Also there's no telling what my afflictions will be.  I may lose the ability to drive, walk, swallow, smell, speak ... or not.  I am, by nature, a planner, so do I start to plan for the possible loss of mobility?  What if that never comes to happen and instead I can't eat anymore but I didn't plan for that?  At what point do I retire from working so that I can enjoy whatever non-PD afflicted time I have left ... and what if I retire at 45 but don't really "progress" (if one can call it that) until 68?  Or what if I "progress" tomorrow?  So, yes - because of those thoughts, a small, completely harmless, easy-to-remove tumor would have been OK with me.  A tumor - a small, completely harmless, easy-to-remove one - could be something I could recover from.  It wouldn't require medication for the rest of my life.  It wouldn't cause my walking to change and it wouldn't get in the way of my writing by hand.  A tumor - again, of the small, completely harmless, easy-to-remove kind - probably wouldn't change my life.

Anyway, the Awesome Fiance Then Awesome Boyfriend (or TAFTAB) drove the two of us to the designated facility on the day of my scheduled MRI.  I was already feeling edgy - I've had the MRI experience before but it was in a familiar setting and I'd seen the process, so I'd known what things would be like.  Walking into this unfamiliar space was ... uncomfortable and awkward.  It was located right next to Oncology, which I immediately resented (and said so to TAFTAB).  And when I checked in at the front desk, I was given a two-page form to complete.  This really pissed me off.  The way I saw it, I was there for a test I didn't really want to help confirm a diagnosis I didn't need to hear and completing paperwork what would take anyone else 5 minutes to fill out instead of my 20 minute average was aggravating.  I turned to TAFTAB with defeat in my eyes and he took pity on me and helped me do my pre-work.

My name was called after about 25 minutes and I was shown to the changing area.  I was given a full-cover gown (instead of the usual hospital gowns where you need to decide if you're going to show off your front side or your back) and was then escorted to the MRI exterior room.  I was asked (again) if I had any piercings, heart equipment, hearing aids ... ANY metal on - or in - my person and was then shown into the room.

The lights were dimmed somewhat and the machine itself was larger than I had visualized.  I wondered if they kept the room lit this way to make the machine seem smaller but, to me anyway, the "mood lighting" had the opposite effect and it sat in the shadows ominously.  I laid on the bed/slab and started to try to trick myself into thinking I was at a spa, waiting for a massage.  The lighting for that little fake out helped, actually, as it was similar enough and I was feeling ...... not confident, exactly, - WRRRRRRR the slab started moving me head-in towards the "capsule" of the machine WRRRRRRR - but comforted.  I reminded myself that TAFTAB was waiting for me just a few rooms away and

and my nightmare started to replay in my head.  The whole damn reel of it.  The sensation of being crammed in my Great Aunt's Datsun was similar to being slid into the MRI.  The lights in the room - instead of being comforting, immediately became morgue-like.  And then the scans started.  My Great Aunt sitting in the box CLICK CLICK CLICK WHRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK THRUMP GRIND CLICK.  Silence.  My family quietly talking nearby but I can't hear GRIND CLICK THRUMP THUMP.   I can't find her hand WRRRRRR THUMP CLICK GRIND.  Silence.  Maybe we were already done.  CLICK CLICK CLICK THRUMP GRIND.  "Spa, spa, spa" I repeated in my head.  "Worst.  Spa.  Ever." my  brain responded back.  THRUMP GRIND CLICK CLICK.  Little blue hat THUD GRIND GRIND GRIND TWEEEEEEEE.  "Alright", I reasoned, "make a pattern from it."  CLICK THUD GRIND GRIND GRIND TRIND TWEEEEE.  "Next will be a 'thud'", I decided.  GRIND THRUMP TWEEEEEEEE THRUMP WRRRRRR STHSTHSTHHHHHHHHH CLICK.  "Damn - letsee I guess we're due for a" TWEEEEEE CLICK STHHH STHHHH STHHHH CLICK WRRRRRRRR.  And on and on it continued.

I don't know how long it went for, honestly.  Way too long.  It was the closest I've ever had to a full-on panic attack.  It probably would have been alright except for the visuals in my head.  When escorted back to the changing area, I managed to completely re-dress myself in about 14 seconds.  I practically sprinted from the room down the hall and into the waiting area, where TAFTAB was seated and I pretty much grabbed his arm and kept my stride going full-strength.  "How was it?" he asked.  "Awful.  Horrid.  Never again.  Never, ever again" I vowed, and I meant it.

I was mad, scared, upset and ... relieved.  That nightmare was scary as a child, but it was seriously terrifying as an adult.  The difference is that, as an adult, I have a say in dealing with experiences.  And, since there is no tumor - of the small, completely harmless, easy-to-remove kind or otherwise - I won't be putting myself through that again any time soon.