"More cow bell!" That’s what I thought she said, anyway. I’m not sure why I had Will Ferrell on my mind, but when the MRI technician handed me the squeezy ball, I swear she said, “More cow bell!,” instead of “Here’s the call bell.”
Of course, ‘More cow bell!’ is just what the bizarre sounds that fill the MRI chamber need. As you may know, MRIs are pretty whacked--you lie down inside this chamber of sorts, stay absolutely still for what seems like an unbearable amount of time, and try to breathe through your claustrophobia, boredom, and anxiety while enduring the oddest assortment of hyper loud, obnoxious sounds that echo throughout the chamber and make your whole body buzz. During some MRIs, the coils beneath you gradually heat the chamber space around you, a chicken roasting in the oven. And sometimes, if you are lucky, the technicians are able to pipe music--of your choice--into the chamber, and again, if you are lucky, you may catch a few snippets of a song before the noise overwhelms you, and if you are really lucky, it will be a song that you not only recognize but one that you actually like, and you can fill your head with the song before the psychotic MRI cacophony overtakes you. Breast MRIs are, to borrow a phrase from Kriss Kross of long ago, not just pretty whacked, but are truly whickety whickety whacked. And with no Classic Soul hits to quell my anxiety, it was no wonder that, a few minutes into it, I was thinking of Will Ferrell, my mind clearly gravitating towards places that would bring me much needed comic relief.
The cab ride has taken about fifteen minutes longer than the morning’s ride; traffic swallowed us up and the cabbie honked his way through pedestrians and lackadaisical cars and finally dropped me off in front of Mass General about three minutes after my 2:30 appointment had started. I run through the revolving doors and find my way to Ellsworth, floor two, where I follow the usual labyrinthine hallways to the MRI waiting room--a surprisingly tiny spot in a huge hospital complex of buildings, courtyards, parking garages, and roving interns. Paperwork. Ten minutes wait, write in journal. Then, I am called in to change: everything off, except underwear, socks and shoes. Johnny gown, pants and robe. It's funny how completely fine you can feel until you put on hospital issue johnnies and suddenly, poof! you feel either like a sick-o or a psych-o, headed for the cuckoo's nest. I feel like both. In my haste, I goof and put the gown on open to the back, and later, must take everything off so it opens in front--I goof again and the string is suddenly knotted and takes me about 5 years to untie. Cram clothes, coat and bag into skinny junior high locker without the carved initials and Andy Gibb poster. I sit in the tiny hallway's only chair, waiting for my number to be called. Ten minutes. I walk ten feet and sit in huge, high chair, awaiting technician, another ten minutes, feeling like Lily Tomlin, with feet not touching floor. The tech arrives to put an IV in. “Nice veins,” he comments. Yep, I coulda been a junkie. I sit for another twenty minutes. No magazines, not even an old MRI Tech weekly, so I read every possible word within sight---not many, since my eyes are now over-40. The technicians are joking together in their little work space beyond the open curtain. They are carrying on. It is Friday afternoon. This is their happy hour. One of them wheels out an older woman, still on the MRI bed, and helps her into a wheelchair. The woman is smiling, laughing, making ridiculous conversation with the technician. Her hair is splayed in all different directions. She goes on and on, then realizes she still has her ear plugs in. Laughs. She is positively beaming.
Whatever she is on, I want.
She leaves with her daughter, and I am told that the techs will clean everything up and be back for me, in a flash. Not so much as in a flash than after a bilious mushroom cloud has filled the room with a hollow achy unease, the technician comes for me--the woman who had just minutes before been flirting with her co-workers. She turns her attention to me, making jokes, hahaha, isn’t this hilarious, aren’t we having fun, pulling me into their happy hour, a TGIF kind of thing that makes me think maybe I can’t trust her. At this point, I have no idea what I am in for, but since I have had four MRIs in the past month, I am feeling fairly confident that whatever the configuration, or the twist on the original, I can handle it. Then I see the table.
The MRI table has cut outs for my breasts, or my “girls,“ as the tech calls them. I have to laugh. It reminds me of the failed stereotactic biopsy attempt, and I immediately am aware of some anxiety beginning to chew at my insides. Now I understand why the gown must open in the front. Gotta get my girls out.
After ten minutes of getting “comfortable“--hooking up the IV, cramming in the ear plugs as deep as they’ll go, figuring out how best to position my neck while lying face down, and making sure my girls are where they should be--the procedure is explained to me, and I am inched into the chamber. A voice echoes through, “Can you hear me?” “yes…” A few strange knocking noises. And then, suddenly, a “Hi,’ from just outside the chamber, though I feel as if I’m underwater, and someone above me in a boat is calling down to me. The machine --much like a conveyor belt--moves me outside the chamber again, and I feel a hand on my back, “Hi, I’m sorry, but we have to put the right coils under you.” “The right coils?" I lift my head and open my eyes; it’s a different woman, who quickly explains to me the oversight: the other technician didn’t know she was still here, and that since she has just been trained in new protocol and equipment for the breast MRI, she wanted to make sure the correct coils were being used. So, unhook everything, up off the table, stand as they take apart old table and put together new one, sort of like big, foam puzzle pieces or toddler play mats and wedges, though, clearly, not as much fun. Climb back on, hook everything up, feel the machine convey me back into the chamber, where she hands me the squeezy, squishy round ball. “More cow bell,“ she says, and she is gone.
I muse over Will Ferrell for awhile, until I realize what she must have said. Something about the call bell. Call bell. Not nearly as much fun.
The male voice has returned, “Can you hear me?” “yep.” “We’re going to start now. This first one will last for just three minutes.” I shift my awareness to my breathing, and brace myself for the rhythmic noise that will soon fill the chamber, a sort of cocooned symphony hall. The first piece is a quirky performance piece, knocks here and there, growing louder and louder, faster and faster, and then, nothing. The voice announces the next piece, “This one is just 2 minutes.” Rocketing blasts. Horribly bad industrial electronic noise. I see Deiter dancing in black on Sprockets. With Will Ferrell. The next sounds just like the alarm that goes off catastrophically in the hatch on TV’s Lost, and for a few seconds, it is all I can do to restrain myself from scrambling the heck out of there, the sounds of “WHHHHAAAU SUCK WHHHHHAAA SUCK!“ reverberating through this mini-hatch, filling this magnetic chamber with a sort of maniacal mechanical laughter. It goes on like this, four 8-minute pieces, then a 7-minute one, then two more 8-minute piece. Each piece is slightly different, all interpretations on the industrial music theme, with lots of cow bell throughout. Sometimes Will Ferrell is banging his cow bell right in my ear, louder and louder. I can see his hairy belly spilling from his too small shirt. A bit of performance art inside my head. This is chamber music for the MRI set. I hope the BSO puts on a better performance for Dad and Mimi.
Several sets into it, the voice returns--I imagine a wizard of Oz behind the curtained window--to tell me that I am doing a good job. What I would do without some positive reinforcement, I do not know. Those animal instincts burn deep. I am more dog than human sometimes.
A bee is knocking on the door, knock knock buzz, buzz buzz knock, and then, the hive has emptied, and there are many bees, and they are angry, swarming the chamber, and then, silence. The voice :”Now your arm will feel cold as the dye moves through. This one will be five minutes, and then seven and then, you are done.” My arm never does feel cold. I worry if it’s working at all. I can’t imagine having to do this again. It has given me a whole new perspective mammography. But by the final minutes, the persistent buzzing has lodged into the background permanently, and I have managed some quiet time in my chamber, and when the voice declares the end of the mission, I emerge feeling victorious and with much relief that it's over, despite the red marks across my face and chest, the numbness in my hands, and the bright buzz in my head.
“Drop-dead gorgeous shots,” the technician says. “The images are amazing, so clear. You did a beautiful job.” “Thanks.” I am an MRI professional, after all. The technicians babble on, and I can tell they are feeling pretty stoked about the new equipment, the new protocol, this new way to help women. But their words cling together in a clump of gibberish, and I hear nothing. I put my shoes back on, and as I walk out the door towards the tiny changing room, I look back, briefly, to see a knot of technicians gathered around the MRI screens, where images of my girls float onscreen. For a brief second, I think I spy Christopher Walken directing a tiny troupe of Sprockets back inside the chamber for the next patient; Will Ferrell brings up the rear, cow bell in tow. Time for my girls and me to leave...
...if it were only that easy. I exit the MRI center and take a right down a sweeping hallway that bends a few times and ushers me into a completely unfamiliar space. I see exit signs everywhere, but I figure they might be a bit misleading--follow any trail of Exit signs and you're bound to exit the building at some point, even if it takes a few days. I spin to see a young looking intern-type coming up a set of stairs; he sees instantly that I am utterly lost (and, since I have two red marks down my face, who knows what else), and offers help, taking me down the stairs and into the hallway, where signs for the Front Lobby are clearly marked. I am grateful for his assistance--those small bits of kindness really do make worlds of difference. I realize, too, that I don't get regular practice making my way through big city hospitals, or streets, or crowds anymore, and I'm feeling a little spent. I sit on a bench, and watch the throngs rushing past, this way and that. It's Friday afternoon, a little after 5. I sit in this moment while time carries the crowds out into the streets.
February 29, 2008
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