Thank God for Washcloths!

Everytime some TV show pictures a patient going into an MRI machine headfirst, I laugh because all the MRI's I have had (and they have been many) I have been put into the machine feet first. Well, surprise. Today's MRI I was going in head first. Yikes!

There is something less troublesome about going in feet first. Like stepping into a pond of water, you can tolerate things better if your head is above water and you feel as if you can come up for air. But if your head is immersed the deepest, its much more difficult to think you will be able to get to safety in a timely fashion should the need arise.

Like you have any control! The wall of that huge magnet is unforgiving. It will not give way no matter how much you press against it. Those tubes are uniform in size, so the bigger your body, the more uncomfortable you will be. Basically, they use the magnetic force to line up the cells of your body, then zap you with an electromagnetic field to shake rattle and roll your innards, and measure the rate at which things settle back down.

Diseased cells settle at a different rate than healthy cells. Of course, this is all a v-e-r-y simplified version of an MRI, and the contrast (which I am NOT getting - thanks, insurance company) they use makes your cells glow in the magnetic field more brightly. (Can you tell I am not a scientist?). Regardless, when they make you lie down on the table and insert you in that tube, your face is less than an inch from the ceiling, and your arms are pressed to your sides by pillows (so as not to burn any skin).

Your head is wedged into a holder and tucked in with more foam wedges. In you go, deep deep in and far far from the opening and safety. You cannot turn over. You cannot sit up. You cannot move your arms. You could not wiggle out if you wanted to. Its not a straightjacket, but it is quite confining.

You are totally dependent on the good graces of the technician to rescue you if something goes awry. You must trust this total stranger to believe you if you say you need help. My usual strategy is to close my eyes and visualize myself lying on a warm sandy beach. But that's when I go in feet first and have some sense of being able to escape should I desire to.

Head first is another proposition altogether. The technician was very understanding. He asked if I was claustrophobia, and laughed when I said "Not usually." On his very first day of work, his supervisor asked him the same question and he said he didn't think so. So she made him get on the table and inserted him in the machine. He gets it now. Great training. And he suggested that I have a washcloth placed over my eyes so I can't accidentally see how constrained I am.

It made all the difference. He inserted the foamy earplugs, I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and obediently lay down on the table, keeping still while he wedged the foam inserts alongside my head until I couldn't wiggle. He talked to me the whole time, explaining what he was doing, handing me a call button, just in case I needed anything, putting a pillow under my legs so my back wouldn't feel strained, and asked me quietly if I wanted the washcloth. YES!!!

With my world now a gauzy white, I feel the table move up and into the tube. Yikes! The pillows wedge my arms alongside my body until I panic a bit. I shift slightly as the unforgiving tube pushes against my arms until I find a position I can live with. I hear his voice tell me that the test will begin in a few minutes and that I am as far in as I will have to go. I try not to thrash about.

The words of a song go rambling through my head. "My Lord knows the way through the wilderness. All you have to do is follow. Strength for today is mine all the way and all that I need for tomorrow. My Lord knows the way through the wilderness. All you have to do is follow." The technician's voice interrupts my song. The first test will take about 15 seconds. Banging begins and ends almost as quickly. I take a deep breath. This isn't so bad. Just lie still. There is a nice fan blowing, offsetting the warmth my arms feel from the walls of the machine.

The voice announces each test. Some three minutes, some four, some two, some longer. The percussive pattern for each round changes. Sometimes its a steady low drumbeat, like African drumming. Sometimes there is a little bit of high pitched ringing after the pounding ends. Sometimes there are three or four sounds weaving patterns around my head, like an orchestra. I hear Latin beats and make up a melody to go with it. I hear sinuous romantic lines and imaging Casablanca. I hear bird sounds and envision a meadow filled with daisies and Queen Anne's lace.

I relax a bit, encouraged by the voice who asks me how I am doing, encourages me that we are almost done. I open my eyes to the white washcloth. I can't resist. I look down as far as I can, and I can actually see beyond the washcloth. The tube is well lighted - it almost looks like an airport runway - but no kidding, the ceiling can't be more than an eyelash length from my face. I quick shut my eyes again. I sing my song, in sync with the rhythm section around me. The tube slides further in. Don't panic. Further. Trust the nice voice. Once more deeper into the maw of copper and wire and metal. Breathe. Breathe, relax.

And we are done! I almost cry when the table slides out of the machine. The technician congratulates me on lying so still. He pulls the plugs from my ears and helps me off the table. "You doing OK?" Yup! Piece of cake. Good to go. I thank him for the washcloth. Its a real life saver. He tells me he has applied for a patent. We laugh and I wobble down the hall to the freedom of the frozen outdoors.