MRI of the Tiger: When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Lemon Cream Doughnuts

"It looks like a big doughnut," said the woman on the phone, in an attempt to answer my question about the workings of a closed MRI.  I said okay, and she signed me up.  And that was the end of that until my appointment.

You may be thinking: Back up!  Why are you talking about something as serious as an MRI, and why did you need one?  Did you get beaned in the head by one of your many shoeboxes?  Alas, no.  But I did have some bloodwork done, and my levels for one of the things they tested turned out to be high.  So, to make sure that nothing was growing in my head, my doctor ordered an MRI.

The thing that hopefully wasn't growing in my head was, of course, a brain tumor.

Now, when I first got this news from the overly-chipper-receptionist-who-turned-out-to-be-a-nurse-practitioner, I freaked out.  So much so that I hung up on her.  "Brain tumor," after all, is a pair of words that no one expects to hear outside Grey's Anatomy.  But after doing some online research (okay, after my mom did some online research; I was way too much of a wuss to do it myself) and grilling my doc, I learned that brain tumors very rarely develop in situations like mine and that on the off chance that I did have one, the chances of it killing me were even slimmer.  So, the MRI was just a precaution.  To me, hearing that was as good as already having had the test and getting a clean bill of health.  Now all I had to do was get through the test.

Everyone always talks about the horribly claustrophobic nature of an MRI.  I didn't know if the fear of small spaces thing would sink its teeth into me, but I have so many other neuroses that I erred on the side of caution and requested an open MRI.  I ended up having to go with the closed one, though (see, ahem, the opening paragraph), because the open one wouldn't image what they needed to see.  Which made me nervous.  Although admittedly not as nervous as getting bloodwork always makes me.  Go figure.

On the appointed day, the husband drove me to the office.  He waited in the car while I marched into the building in my LC Lauren Conrad sweat suit and bright pink Uggs.  The place was packed, and I couldn't help but wonder what personal crisis had brought each of those people there.

I didn't have to wait too long.  When they took me back, the tech, who was an older, no-nonsense woman, reiterated the same questions I'd answered at home on my computer.  Here's how that went:

Me: On the form, I marked that I don't have psoriasis.  But I do have pretty bad dandruff.  I don't know if that's something you need to know?

Tech: (Disgustedly) It is not.  Inserts IV for the contrast dye, which I wasn't expecting. 

Me: But I didn't fast!

Tech: (Just as disgustedly) So?  I'm not taking blood.

Right.  Keep it together, I counseled myself.  The tech (I can only imagine gratefully) left me to wait for the next one, who turned out to be a guy around my age.  I followed him into "the room."  Our conversation went something like this:

Tech: Do you want music?

Me: Yes.

Tech: What kind?

Me: Pop, rock, alternative, whatever.

Tech: How old are you?

Me: Forty.

Tech: (Gives a knowing grin.)  Okay.

And so into the doughnut I went.  Sure, the ceiling or whatever was awfully close to my head.  But I could see out the front of the doughnut, which was reassuring.  I closed my eyes and settled in for my very own close quarters concert featuring this spot-on playlist:

"Comedown" - Bush

"No Rain" - Blind Melon

"Lightning Crashes" - Live

"Drive" - Incubus

"Mary Jane's Last Dance" - Tom Petty

"Lithium" - Nirvana

"Bullet with Butterfly Wings" - Smashing Pumpkins

That's right; I listened to "despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage," while trapped inside a medical apparatus designed to examine my head.  I love a healthcare professional with a sense of humor, don't you?  

Which is to say that the experience wasn't bad.  It was more of a creepy, coming-of-age retrospective interrupted by what sounded like fighter jets.  Once it was over, the techs (there were three of them by then) said that I did "very well" and was "remarkably still," and the old honor roll student in me soared.

But the real relief came two days later when I got the call that my scan was completely normal!  It was one of those moments where I felt incredibly lucky and thankful and never wanted to complain about anything ever again.

As long as I don't start reading minds like Zoey in Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist, then everything will be just peachy.

Or perhaps I should say doughnuty.    

Hood Seasons: The More You Snow, the More You Grow

Ice Princess Necklace

Sweater: Merona, Target
Shoes: 2 Lips Too, JCPenney

I've spent more than my fair share of posts complaining about Old Man Winter.  The cold, the dark, the clunky boots, and, of course, the nasty driving conditions.  But today is the first day of spring, which means that it's officially over.  Also that it's safe to reflect on that one day when my Honda and I braved the tundra.

It wasn't as if the storm had come on suddenly, like a squall slicing a tranquil day.  No, I saw the flakes begin to fall while still at work around lunchtime.  Usually, the first flurry is enough to make me hightail it home.  But this time I stayed put.  For one thing, the news said that it wouldn't stick.  For another, I was tired of being afraid of the weather.

In other words, I got cocky.

When I left four hours later, the parking lot was an icy blanket.  With the help of a kind coworker, I cleaned off my car and crawled away, gripping the steering wheel like a life raft.  It was pretty grim.  My heart was pounding, and people were passing me left and right.  Then I heard Incubus's "Drive" on the radio.  You know.  That song about overcoming fear, and quite possibly (at least in this case), a fear of driving:

"Sometimes
I feel the fear of
Uncertainty stinging clear

And I
Can't help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear
Take the wheel and steer
It's driven me before and seems to have a vague

Haunting mass appeal
But lately I'm beginning to find that I
Should be the one behind the wheel"

I took it as a sign.  If Brandon Boyd could choose water over wine, then I could get myself home.  Who knew how many other people felt this way, how many other "special snowflakes" were, at that very moment, white-knuckling it through the elements?  It gave me hope, and it gave me courage, and when I finally inched into my driveway, I felt like I'd slayed a dragon.

A few days later it snowed again, although this time not nearly as much.  The husband built a snowman and snapped this pic of me with it, albeit wearing Betsey Johnson earmuffs instead of a hood.

If nothing else, then it's photographic evidence that snow can be fun.  And that I can't resist kooky headgear.

Then last night, I chased off my inner Abominable Snowman once and for all by making this Ice Princess Necklace (above).  It's more delicate than my usual stuff, but the glittery sky blue and white remind me that winter isn't just treacherous, but beautiful.  Kind of like admiring an exquisite ice sculpture instead of imagining some kid's tongue stuck to it.  Or appreciating the elegance of an icicle without thinking that it's going to impale Marvin the Mailman.  Also, it sort of screams Frozen.  Which is about as dark as a vanilla milkshake.

So I learned something from Old Man Winter.  Now class is in session with Senorita Spring.  (Which I know isn't a thing.  But it should be.)

Watch out, allergies, mosquitoes, and sunburn.  Mulan is coming for you.