(“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Psalm 23:4)
…And NOW, MRI Stands For “Me Really Irritated:”
“Russell and I waited a couple more hours for the MRI.
We moved to the imaging area of the hospital and made small talk. I bought a small bottle of orange juice to take with me in case I was lightheaded with the IV and my stressed-out nature. I felt a little better, having one scary appointment down, with the genetic testing consultation. Now, all I had left was the one involving the dreaded IV.
Finally, a male technician called my name. Here we go.
We walked down the hallway to a changing room area. I immediately let him know about my tricky vein situation and enquired about butterfly IVs. My heart sank at his answer.
“Well, we don’t use them. They tend to have too fine a needle; we’re afraid that they’ll splinter off.”
Fabulous.
“Well, what about a vein detector? I’ve heard you use them here in the hospital.” “Vein detectors? We don’t have them here. Don’t worry, we do this all the time.”
(Yeah, I’ve heard that before. You haven’t met my veins).
I changed into two blue gowns. One opened in the front, untied and the other covered me, with its ties in the back. I waited until they were ready to prick me.
The technician came for me, and we walked to an IV station. I sat in the recliner- looking chair, set my orange juice next to me, ever-ready for potential wooziness and fainting.
He got the IV materials together, tied the rubber tubing around my arm and pressed in its crook, trying to find a ripe vein. He swabbed a spot on my right arm with alcohol and called me, “Dear.” Okay. He was a man in his twenties, someone I could have once babysat, but okay, Dear. He tried to make small talk.
“What kind of music do you want played in the machine?”
(They give you earphones and attempt to drown out the loud noises by offering a selection of music styles. Personally, for me, it didn’t work. It just sounded like a loud machine with music piped in. More noise added to the noise).
I joked, “Polka.” He laughed. “I don’t care, anything…”
“Christmas music?” He playfully chimed in.
And, all the while, he’s trying to get the perfect “stick.” He missed.
“Oh-h-h-h. I know. I’m sorry, Dear…”
So, second attempt: he tried the top of my right hand. He missed. I heard his nervous laughter.
I felt vindicated.
“Don’t worry, we do this all the time” echoed in my mind.
By now, he was more nervous. Two failed sticks and the machine needed its stuck patient already.
Just then, a nurse passed by, and I swear, he pounced on her, quickly handing me off.
“Hey, could you get an IV in her, please?” He fled. I never saw him again.
So, she got a quick primer from me about my notorious veins, grabbing both of my outstretched arms, doing a quick scan. She assessed the top of my left arm had potential.
“Feel a little poke…”
And presto! We made contact. It didn’t hurt much more than a needle stick. Of course, I looked away. But, finally, the IV was in.
We moved to the large MRI room and my first thought, looking at the machine, was the science fiction classic, “2001: A Space Odyssey.”
“Open the pod bay doors, please, HAL.”
The nurse told me to climb onto the table area and place my tatas into the two breast shaped holes. I was face down, with my hands resting above my head. One hand was closer to a “panic button.”
No, it was just a communication button, but if I did have a claustrophobic moment, I could let the nurse know asap. I was given my headphones and I waited for the 1990s alternative rock music to start playing.
I was rolled into the machine’s tunnel, already whirring and noisy. I could barely hear the music. “Can you hear me? Are you comfortable?” asked the nurse.
“Yes. I’m okay.”
“If you need anything, just press the button. I’m right here.”
My MRI commenced, lasting for the next forty-five minutes. Just whirring noise, with me face down in the tunnel trying to hear songs from Nirvana and Oasis.
Once done, she helped me up and oh, so carefully, removed the IV. That hurt more coming out than it did going in. I took a swig of orange juice. She escorted me back to the changing room area. I asked how many shots she got of my breasts.
“Oh, thousands.”
I let that sink in. Thousands.
Once changed, I walked back to the waiting room. I found Russell seated. His eyes immediately went to my taped arms- all three sites. He shook his head and smirked.
Pin cushion.
We left the hospital, and Russell bought me a pink seal named “Pierre” at a local store. The cute face caught my attention earlier. And, of course, when you think of Breast cancer, you think of a pink seal named after a French guy…
(Excerpt from “Cancerventures: Tales of a Diagnosed Woman” by Sheryle Cruse)
