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.    

Musical Muse Clues: Mix Tape of the Mind

Clockwise: The Beatles, 1; Beck, Odelay; Better Than Ezra, Greatest Hits; The Black Keys, El Camino

One of my favorite new(ish) TV shows is Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist.  Not to be confused with the movie Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist, this NBC hour-long dramedy is in its sophomore season and is about an endearingly dorky coder named Zoey (Jane Levy) who goes into an MRI machine and emerges being able to hear people's feelings as songs.  As if having an MRI weren't traumatic enough without that added emotional baggage!  

This is probably a good time to mention that when it comes to musicals, I'm usually like, what, people randomly bursting into song?  Pass!  But instead of coming off as a gimmicky Broadway device, the songs in Zoey are real cries for help that add depth to the characters -- and underscore Zoey's responsibility to them.  Zoey's powers are all the more meaningful because they help her connect with her dad (Peter Gallagher), who's dying of a disease that prevents him from speaking, and empathize with her mom (Mary Steenburgen).  Her powers also become valuable as she steps up to boss lady status in male-dominated Silicon Valley, a gig that's fraught with stress and challenges.  Finally, being a mind reader is uber important as Zoey navigates the sometimes-murky-sometimes-rose-colored waters of dealing with love interests Max (Skylar Astin, who was made for this show) and Simon (John Clarence-Stewart).  Max is an earnest and sweet fellow coder that Zoey's known for years, and Simon is a suave yet brooding marketing whiz who understands the pain of losing a father.  When it all gets to be too much, Zoey confides in her annoying neighbor-turned-bestie Mo (Alex Newell), a no-nonsense trans woman with wigs for days.  

Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist appeals to me because it's very much like a book.  Layered and character-driven, it opens a window into people's heads and hearts that usually remains firmly closed.  Fortunately, the heaviness of the revelations is offset by the jazziness of the dance numbers.  

Needless to say, I was psyched when I heard that Jane Levy is nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Television Musical Series or Comedy.  In a world where streaming services reign supreme, that's a rare feat for an actor from a network show.  Which means that this nom is -- yes -- something to sing about!  Award category notwithstanding, Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist is still more dramedy than comedy (because you have to be jump-off-a-cliff depressing to qualify as a drama for any award).  It hits all the high notes of the genre, including colorful sets and costumes, romance, heartache, and a sometimes-lighthearted-sometimes-stirring spotlight on self discovery and personal growth.

Zoey doesn't always get it right.  She's as mixed-up as any of us, or indeed as any mix tape made from a radio top ten list circa 1995.  But she's trying and she's learning, and her journey shows us that it's always worth it to walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

Or, at the very least, to listen to a song on someone else's playlist.