What I’m about to share with you, my friends — the terrifying, Poe-worthy, raise-the-dead tale of my recent trip through an MRI, all because of a small spot an X-ray of my wrist found hanging out on my pancreas (You Hoo! Was there perhaps some anatomical confusion here?) reminds me of that unforgettable afternoon, nearly 50 years ago, when I took my six-year-old daughter with me through a New Hampshire car wash.
Fun times with Daddy! I just knew, deep down inside, that she could hardly wait! I mean, not every little girl gets a father thoughtful enough to take her through a State-of-the-Art automatic car wash with him — right? I mean, come on, now — what little kid really needs yet another Saturday-morning dose of Sesame Street, when presented with a golden opportunity to go through a freakin’ car wash? And besides, that show was already so, so yesterday by then; the car wash, on the other hand, was happening now! So “Be Gone, Dull Kermit,” I say. “It’s been nice knowin’ ya!”
Anyway, just before we entered that tunnel, I distinctly remember saying, with my characteristically playful, Isn’t-he-clever nonchalance, “Are you ready? Here we go, now! Buckle your Seatbelt! We’re about to be gobbled up by a Gigantic, Man-Eating Monster!”
Well, I know I said something like that. But whatever I actually said, I pray you’ll find it within yourselves to forgive me. After all, it’s the thought that counts, not the details.
But the truth is that I got just what I deserved that day, didn’t I! I realized, far too late, that I was about to feed an intellectually precocious, highly impressionable post-toddler — my sudden, sacrificial lamb — into the toothy, dripping-wet jaws of a huge mechanical tapeworm with a ferocious appetite for underlings. There’s no getting around it: Me Bad that day!
Now if my memory serves me right, Daughter was clearly scared shitless by my less-than-encouraging introduction to Clean Car World. It was her screaming that told me so. But enough about that, huh? As far as I’m concerned, being ‘scared shitless’ was more than sufficient for the occasion. I mean, think about it! Is a child that young really ready to be so over-the-top pissed at her Old Man? (I know, I know: ask any parent!) Scared, sure; pissed, inexcusable. Doesn’t fit the maturational arc.
But as usual, I digress! And in spite of that, you deserve a confession. You see, the real topic of this commentary is neither Car Wash Calamities nor Bad Parenting Defined. It’s What Happens when Science Meets Cowardice and Science Wins.
Trust me, dear readers! When last month I learned to my monumental horror that I’d just been sentenced to 45 minutes in — God help me, an MRI — you know, one of those hyper-sophisticated “Magnetic Imaging” thingies that are all the rage in the medical community — I was even more shitlessly scared than Little Miss Precocious was!
For the record, the online spiel about my hospital’s MRI did just what it had to do to educate me: it delivered the Bad, Bad News about how the device works and what it’s supposed to accomplish. Among the nerve-shattering nuggets of understanding in that document were the following We-want-you-to-feel-comfortable items:
- The Magnet in an MRI is more than 45,000 times stronger than the magnetic field of Planet Earth.
- Because an MRI is so exceptionally loud, patients must wear ear plugs or headphones to block out the noise and protect their hearing.
- Patients in a dozen countries around the world are known to have been violently yanked — sucked, really, and entirely without warning — into a malfunctioning MRI, turning them instantly into a pasty, battle ship gray substance which in taste, smell, and consistency is remarkably reminiscent of Pita Pal hummus.*
* By the way, just in case you might be wondering, I was only kidding — mostly — about the third item on the list. (Uh-oh, here we go again! The one-and-only Doctor Digression, a writer who excels in his speciality and is incomparably good at it.)
So! About that MRI experience: the good news is that it is over.
Done with! Kaput! Achevé! Kumaliza! Of course, I trust that by now, all you really care about is how I did in my Maiden Voyage through that diabolical torture tube. You must be understandably eager to learn what it was like for me. I get it!
But first, I am truly sorry to report that I’ve a confession to make. So here it comes! But first, I have some sincere advice for you, pretty much the same advice I offered my daughter on that fateful day just before she became Car Wash Cuisine — “Better buckle up that seatbelt, Lady Einstein. You have no idea how much fun you’re about to have!”
So here, my friends, is the Truth and nothing but the Truth, delivered, for better or worse, as only I can deliver it. (I’ve no doubt I’ve no doubt that when I get home tonight I’ll find a CNN HERO award in my mail box!) Thanks to the willing ingestion of just one chubby little doctor-prescribed pill, shaped remarkably like the Von Hindenburg and called alprazolam* — just another, fancy-pants name for Xanax — I remember absolutely nothing about my MRI experience.
Nothing! Zilch! Jack Shit! Diddly Squat!
I went into Radiation, that night, all set — perhaps even masochistically eager — to suffer profoundly. Then, once my ordeal was over, I was certain I would be lavishly praised by friends, family — and, of course, the local and regional media — for my astonishing courage under unspeakably difficult circumstances. A CNN special, I had no doubt at all, was a sure thing.
All I can really remember now is what I said to Marilyn, my designated driver, as we were heading — toward the hospital, I thought — that day: “When will we arrive? I’m getting antsy!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped. “We’ve just left the place! You’ve already had your damned MRI! And by the way, was it really all that bad?”
“How would I know?” I said. “I’m tellin’ you, I remember nothing! Nada! Zee-Ro! And I must say, you have a really sick sense of humor this morning.”
“You don’t remember falling asleep on the way to the hospital?” she asked. “You were out like a street-dwelling wino! You don’t remember me helping you wriggle into that come-on-over-and-see-it Johnny? Your ass was sticking out like two loafs of bread, fresh out o’ the oven! I could have put a dozen No. 2 Pencils in there!”
“Please!” I wailed. “I don’t wanna hear stuff like this! Besides, what you’re saying can’t be anything more than a figment of your overworked imagination — or maybe your idea of a practical joke. Who put you up to this charade, anyway? Tell me!”
“Nobody put me up to anything! It’s you who are acting crazy!”
“Crazy like a fox,” I said to myself, my teeth now bared like a carnivore over a heap of roadkill. “Now take me back to that friggin’ hospital. I wanna get this ordeal over with!”
“Not a chance,” she shouted, beginning to lose the last few remnants of what was once her cool.
“And by the way, it’s not morning, it’s evening. Late evening, come to think of it. Your MRI was at 7:00 PM. It lasted 45 minutes. And since it took you nearly two ridiculous, agonizing hours to wake up afterward, It’s now just past 10:15 PM. And thanks to that fiendish little mind bullet you took — it coulda been arsenic, for Christ’s sake. Probably was — we’ve just missed the Rachel Maddow Show.”
“Rachel fucking Maddow doesn’t walk on water,” I said, “and I regret to inform you that neither do you. She can wait, just like all the rest of us mere mortals have to wait when what we so desperately need to happen hasn’t happened yet. She’ll be back tomorrow; you can count on it. It’s all about the ratings; everyone knows that.
By now, Lady-go-Drivah was slowly and methodically moving her head back and forth, wondering how she’d ever agreed to shack up with the likes of her onetime lover-come ‘spouse. “Listen,” she said, “I didn’t really plan to be rude and confrontational this evening. But Jesus! You keep saying you remember nothing about the ‘procedure.’ Swell! Wunderbar! But I, for one, shall never forget this day — this night, actually. For me, it’s destined to go down in our marital history as the night you lost your Memory, your Mind, and frankly, whatever was left of your Human Dignity!”
Whew. I do go on, don’t I! But writing is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?
Well, dear reader, I guess you can tell, by now, just how much kick that harmless little throat lozenge actually had! I’ve no doubt I went through absolute hell in my magnetic torture tunnel, and yet I have nothing to show for it — nothing to brag about — nothing to play my violin about! It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean auditory proportions!
But wait: it seems as if I’m hearing only the most deafening silence now! So let me guess: I’ll bet you think I’m done — believe me, I know your kind! But I beg to differ with you and your misguided, ill-informed assumption. I am not done! Mostly, but not completely. What a joker you are! Live daringly! Think otherwise!
Now in the spirit of limitless generosity and social justice, I beseech you to allow me to share The Rest of the Story with you.
It goes like this: I got a late-night call from my doctor’s office yesterday, and like my maddeningly persistent wifey-poo, the nurse on duty insisted on telling me I’ve actually already undergone that sick-puppy procedure — and would I please stop calling to reschedule. Even worse, she told me I’ll need to have another one next year! Goddam! And thanks a lot, Doc!
The End really is near now — still don’t believe me? Anyway, excuse moi: does anyone out there happen to know where I can get my hands on a device that can give a man back his precious, purloined memory? If you do know, you may reach me at either artsmultiple@gmail.com or 207-911-BRAINDEAD. I’d love to hear from you. And unlike the perpetrator of this weird little diatribe, don’t you forget it!