I had an MRI scan today to throw some light on my recent relapse.
I know the score now – I leave the watch and earrings at home, wear a sports bra (no metal clips), don a tatty old cashmere sweater (usually freezing in the tube) and took my best friend (where would I be without her?).
At the hospital, I mainlined caffeine before we made our way to the clinic.
Once there, I answered all the questions, disclosed my weight (state secret), confirmed I wasn’t pregnant (hah!), accepted the ear-plugs and laid down, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.
Ho hum. I was whooshed into the tube and had that momentary burst of panic, which I knew if I let it grow, would condemn me to squeezing the emergency button and calling a halt to the whole thing. Claustrophobia + MRI = gritted teeth and the promise of looking round the hospital gift shops if I make it through.
After a while of zoning out, working out a shopping list in my mind, I was slid back out and injected with a dye to light up any active lesions in my brain. Then I was popped back in again. More banging sounds, which I attempted to ignore and concentrate on whether I needed one or two courgettes and had I run out of loo roll?
I was slid back out yet again, fully baked, and rolled off the plastic tray I’d been lying on, relieved it was all over. Except it wasn’t. Someone lifted a huge plastic square over to me, like a massive head brace thing with bolt bits on it. A different head rest was put in to place. Ah, they were preparing for the next patient?
Nope. For the first time ever, my neck was to have it’s very own special MRI. It was terrifying. My head was locked in to place, like some Medieval form of torture and I was slid yet again back in to the tube.
This time it was even weirder. Far from being cold, I felt as if I was being cooked. The heat blossomed all around me and then a pressure started on my head, like a gentle crushing, but crushing nonetheless. Hmm. The panic took root and I frantically tried to recall the courgettes. Three?
Over the intercom, I dimly heard ‘only two more scans to go’, listening to a brand new MRI theme tune. I swear it sounded like some bloke saying, ‘dah, dah, dah’ to a backbeat of drums.
Finally, eventually, I was slid out for the final time. I was shaking as I popped the earplugs in the bin and fell against the wall as I tried to put my boots back on. I staggered back to my friend, went to the loo (pesky coffee) and set off for the shops.
My heart was beating so fast, I couldn’t decide whether to buy a coaster with ‘Live, Love, Laugh!’ on it or a pencil with a tiny windmill topper. I went home, images of courgettes following me like a teasing hallucination.
I hate courgettes.