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.