Will a trip through the noisy tunnel lead to good news? Will it end in time for the day’s bridge game?
By Jim Flint for Ashland.news
I showed up at Asante Ashland Community Hospital’s imaging center at 11 a.m. for an 11:30 MRI appointment, which gave me two minutes to check in and 28 minutes to obsess. The doctor had ordered the scan because my lab results suggested possible multiple myeloma. It turns out an MRI, that magical doughnut of magnets and radio waves, can peer into your bones, tissues and organs with the intimacy of a nosy neighbor peeking through the blinds.
Thirty-five years ago, I was diagnosed with monoclonal gammopathy of “unknown significance.” Which is exactly the kind of diagnosis you want — ominous yet noncommittal. The math was simple: a 25% chance of developing multiple myeloma within 25 years, and a 75% chance of not. It was basically Vegas odds, except with fewer free drinks. The recent lab tests suggested that maybe my number had come up. Or maybe not. They were still of “unknown significance.” I suppose we’ll see.
Since this was my first MRI, I had questions.
“Will I be able to play the violin after the MRI?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent! I always wanted to be able to play the violin.”
The laugh was polite, the way one laughs at a child who’s holding a knock-knock joke hostage.
Hospital couture
In the dressing room, I changed into a pair of cotton drawstring pants and a gown that gaped in the back. The technologist, clearly a veteran of these wardrobe malfunctions, gave me a tip: Tie it first, then pull it over your head. Ingenious. After he left, I stood there in my new outfit, feeling like a monk who had lost his calling.
When he returned, he told me to leave my cane at the doorway. “So the magnetic field won’t suck it into the MRI machine.” Which raised the question: If it could suck in a cane, what about my fillings? Would they rip out mid-procedure, like tiny silver meteors flying toward the magnet?
The MRI itself resembled a tunnel to Narnia, if Narnia were furnished exclusively in hospital beige. I lay down on a slab that had all the comfort of a carpeted floor. The techs tucked cushions around me, strapped a few coils on top of my chest and pressed a squeeze bulb into my hand. “In case you’re in distress,” one of them said. Distress? As though that word somehow captured the full spectrum of panic, pain and existential dread one might feel when trapped inside a thundering metal tube.
Earplugs went in, headphones followed, and I chose “classical” from the music menu. The slab slid me inside, and a periscope-like mirror offered a view of a framed photo of a flower on the wall outside. It was a clever trick, designed to make you feel less like you’re in a coffin. Instead, you’re in a coffin with a window.
The MRI symphony
The music began, though it was quickly swallowed by the machine’s “little bit noisy” repertoire. First came a rat-a-tat-tat like a cap gun. Then came a mournful clarinet tone, followed by what sounded like a trombone trading short, testy remarks with a bassoon.
Just as I was adjusting to this odd little woodwind and brass section, in barged what could be described as an E-flat baritone jackhammer, blasting out its own interpretation.
At one point, the “trombone” fell into step with the Arvo Pärt’s “Spiegel im Spiegel” in my headphones, producing an accidental but strangely beautiful industrial harmony. I thought, so this is what happens when minimalist Estonian composers collaborate with a pit orchestra of power tools.
I never felt claustrophobic, though my back ached and I was slightly worried about missing my 1:10 online bridge game. (The things we cling to in times of uncertainty.)
Forty minutes later, the slab withdrew me from the tunnel like an overbaked pizza. I reclaimed my cane, shuffled back to the dressing room and chuckled at the unfortunate rearview angle provided by the gown.
To their credit, the staff couldn’t have been more reassuring. Which is exactly what you want when facing the possibility of a scary diagnosis — people who smile and tell you you’re doing great, even though you’ve contributed nothing more heroic than lying still.
Reading the fine print
The results landed in my online chart by the time I had returned home and logged on for the bridge game. After some light Googling, I deciphered that the findings were: 1) probably harmless, 2) still possibly not, 3) no fractures, and 4) stay tuned. In other words: No reason to break out the champagne, but no need to start practicing my tragic sighs, either.
So I go on. I play my bridge, attend Rogue Valley concerts and plays and, when necessary, lie down in giant magnets while listening to Arvo Pärt battle a jackhammer.
Freelance writer and Curtain Call columnist Jim Flint is a retired newspaper publisher and editor. Email him at [email protected].
