I had an MRI when I was a child, but had forgotten why I didn’t like them.

I layed down on the table and offered myself up as a sacrifice to the white tube, which would soon swallow me, legs first.  The MRI assistant taped my feet together, so that they would keep an upright position and not move when I relaxed them.  Then she put a thick sheet of something heavy over my shins and tied that to the table.  Immediately, I tried to figure out the quickest way to escape my restraints, should this turn out to be more sinister than expensive (spoiler:  It ended up being both).

A womans voice came out of some speakers, telling me that the first session would be four minutes, the next- five.  All of a sudden, there was a POUND POUND POUND POUND POUND, like a jackhammer, set in slow motion.  It was loud and reminded me of what it was that scared me so many years ago.  Session after session came and went, each time with the voice telling me how long it would be and to not move.

Not moving was is difficult.  My face itched.  My feet were cramping.  My shorts (issued by the MRI staff and woman’s voice) were bunching up.  I tried to take full breaths, but couldn’t, because my legs would move (See Rule # 1).  The headphones that were by my head (they’d been offered to me, but I ended up not wearing them) played my request of “Alternative” music, but were drowned out by the most expensive jackhammer known to man.

One of the sessions had to be done again, because I’d fallen asleep, but when startled by the next series of pounding, I’d started and woken up.  My legs must have moved at that time.

Finally it was over and the voice ordered the tube to spit me out.

I’m supposed to take the CD that they gave me and give to the doctor who recommended the MRI.  So that’s the next step.  Do I have stress fractures, or not?  Place your bets, folks…My bet, sadly, is that I’m missing the Nashville Marathon.

For those who are mildly curious:  I have posted my MRI pics here.

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