The MRI

My left wrist has been hurting pretty much all the blessed time lately.  When I bend it, don't bend it, try to lift anything...you get the idea.

So I made the mistake of telling my doctor.  He gave me a brace which, oddly enough, made the stupid thing hurt worse.  When I told him this he sighed and said, "Well, I think I'll have to send you in for an MRI."

An MRI?!  Aren't those for major head traumas and otherwise life-threatening injuries?

Apparently not.  My doc just seems to dole them out like they're a carnival ride or something.  And so that is why I, Jenna Woestman, went in for my first (and only) MRI this morning. 

I was happy that I had scheduled the appointment late enough that I could sleep in a little bit (if you call 7:15 sleeping in).  But it was lovely; after I got up Henry and I took a nice walk.  I had plenty of time to work on two of my Bible studies and still not be late for my 9:15 appointment with the Tube of Death.

I arrived at the diagnostic test center and promptly was informed by the jumpy desk clerk that they had been robbed the day before.  This was why she had no computer, TV, fax machine...etc...  She completely flipped out when she saw me; it appears I had startled her by walking in the door.

Maybe not a good start to the morning?

I was instructed to remove my wedding ring, watch, and earrings.  I did so.  Before my doc scheduled this appointment for me, I remember him asking, "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"Ha!"  I responded, "No way."  Because I'm too tough for that.

"Well, I don't think you'll have to go in the tube anyway, they'll probably just put your left arm in a smaller tube." 

So I'd been banking on that.  I didn't remove my purity ring, which is on my right hand.  Because of course I wasn't going IN the tube...right?

The tech walked me into the MRI room.  "You'll take off your shoes and get onto this" he pointed to a small, narrow, hard-looking plastic bed.

It was quite apparent that I was actually going IN the tube.

"Um, still I have metal on me.  Like in my skirt zipper and stuff..." I hesitantly told the MRI tech.  I didn't know why I wasn't supposed to have metal on me, but I was hoping it wasn't because I'd become like a fork in a microwave and start sparking.

The tech looked at me like I was an idiot and ushered me back to the room where my earrings and wedding ring were and instructed me to remove all items that had metal in them.  (The zipper, for some reason, was fine.)

I did so and hesitantly followed him back to The Tube where he made me lay face down on the board, left arm straight out in front of me and wedged into a foam slot.  This MRI tube was a lot, lot, lot smaller than the ones on those Discovery Channel reality shows for people with diseases. 

I began to hyperventilate.  And I'm not claustrophobic.

"Do not move."  The tech said, bending down into my face.  "Don't waste your time, don't waste my time.  Don't move."

I whimpered, "Ok..."

"This will be about a half an hour.  I'm going to put these earplugs in your ears and additional ear protection outside your ears because MRI machines are loud." 

MRI machines are loud?  I wasn't expecting this.

He pushed a button and I slowly entered The Tube.  His last words to me were, "Don't move."

I lay there on my stomach, left arm straight out in front of me like a backwards Nazi salute, as still as can be, trying not to breathe.  I then realized that I was starting to hyperventilate.  My mom's sage advice came back to me just then: take deep, slow breaths. 

The asthma attack averted, I tried to think of something to do.  It's really hard to maintain any sort of attention span when your arms are falling asleep and you are being buzzed at different radio frequencies. 

I tried to pray but found that I spent more time asking God to calm me down than actually doing any constructive praying.

I tried to determine how many more rounds of buzzing I would have to endure before the guy let me out.

I tried to get comfortable.

I tried to stop myself from squeezing the blue ball that indicated to the lab tech that "I WANT OUT!!"

After what seemed like hours, I finally couldn't take the pain in my left shoulder any longer.  My left arm is not designed to be contorted the way he'd placed it, and I couldn't feel anything past my elbow (upside: my wrist didn't hurt...). I was starting to panic in the close space.

Every few minutes I'd make progressively louder and angrier whimpers of pain and frustration.  I began kicking my feet hoping that the lab tech would notice my movement and come in to yell at me, at which point I'd let him know that I was Quite Finished with this whole MRI thing.

He noticed my discomfort and came in.  "We're almost done.  I just need one more, are you OK?"

"I'm really hurting...but I can handle one more."  I told him.  I felt as though I was quite big for making such a concession.

The "one more" was probably the longest one yet.  When he finally pulled me out of the machine I couldn't move my left arm, and my right arm was pretty far gone as well.  The MRI tech looked at me like I was a gigantic wimp.  I glared at him.

"Did I move too much?"  I asked.

He looked at me smugly.  "One of them I need to redo."

Not on my life.  My doctor is going to make his diagnosis with the images he's got because I am NOT doing that again!  Not unless something legitimate is actually wrong with me.