I had an MRI this morning.
It was my first MRI, to monitor an aneurysm in my brain discovered last year during my random heart issues. Last year they did a CT scan with contrast as I did not know if tooth implants would count as metal. (It does not. They are non-ferrous. I learned this as a more-or-less universal fact from the radiology tech. And to think I made my poor dentist research the screw in my mouth.)
When I called to schedule a few weeks ago, they asked where I wanted to receive an MRI and I chose the hospital that is 600 steps away from my front door. They offered me an appointment at 7:15 a.m. on a Sunday. I agreed.
Roll out of bed, wander to the hospital, get an MRI, and be home while it’s still early for a cup of coffee.
And that is indeed how it played out, and I had my coffee in my hand before 8 a.m.
On the walk over, I noticed this Subura station wagon from Vermont with roses on the hood. Now, between the apartment building across the street and the hospital itself, one finds a lot of out-of-state cars and doctors-in-training. And while I did not linger long enough to read what was written on the windshield, it said something like “you and me forever” and someone had laid a wrapped bouquet of roses on the hood. A marriage proposal? A stalker? A farewell from a lover returning to a place far away as a promise to come back?
I surely hope they aren’t roses, because leaving roses on the hood of a car in the middle of the city in the rain, especially if it’s a marriage proposal is certainly both romantic and stupid.
I arrived at the hospital around 6:50, in part because I know they ask you to register at the front desk and then meander through the facility to reach the waiting room of your particular appointment where you start the registering process again. There are usually insurance card checks, and headshots taken to prevent fraud.
I walk in the front doors and there’s one person, in a hospital t-shirt, sitting right inside. Before I even have a chance to pause or plot a course, she greets me with, “Are you hear for an MRI?”
I say yes, and then she follows with, “Is your name Angel?”
I again say yes.
Now, I know this particular hospital doesn’t do much hospital-ing. They literally only have one floor of inpatient services, and I experienced that last year. I must say the renovations are looking gorgeous, again, nothing like the room I stayed in last year straight out of mid-twentieth-century Americana. At this early hour on Sunday morning, there is no one in the hospital but me and this employee, Rose. No one.
“As soon as I clock in, I’ll take you back,” Rose says. “But we have a few minutes. So have a seat.”
I sit behind Rose in the waiting area in front of the not-even-staffed-yet registration desk.
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll read my book.”
I have a lovely conversation about Rose, her retirement from one of the larger hospitals in the network, and how she has really enjoyed reading again since her retirement. She clocks in and escorts me upstairs and down the hall to the MRI suite where I sit in another waiting room and Rose greets the staff who are arriving with us for their shift.
I sit and read my book, and the techs come for me. For the first time ever, I am given hospital pants. I peel off my civilian layers and tie on my gown and pants.
Much to my relief they have a metal detector as the final phase of the pre-MRI adventure. I am pleased to report I am not magnetic.
So many of these tests come with so much hype, and I have to say, I think I prefer the MRI to the CT with contrast, because an MRI doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to or in the middle of urinating in my pants.
And they tell you to stay as still as you can– which always makes me super aware of every twitch in my body.
They warn you that the machine is loud and they give you ear protection. If I had to describe the experience I would say space rocket meets construction site. And so many different types of squealing, clanging and banging.
Angel Ackerman 