Trust Tommy

Today, I got an MRI done on my hip and knee, to try and find the cause of my knee pain.

This was the first one I’d had, so I didn’t really know what to expect. Well, okay, wasn’t technically my first; I had one when I was two, but I don’t remember that one, so it’s not counted.

John called from, well, I don’t actually know, somewhere in mainland Europe, I think, as we pulled into the hospital, so I went on ahead while Mom chatted with him. I went inside and navigated the ( albeit well sign-posted) rat’s maze that is Cappagh Hospital.

I eventually found the MRI department, and they handed me a form to fill out. Was I currently the bionic man? Had I ever had open heart surgery? Is there a chance I could be pregnant? These were questions that made me look deep into my soul, and discover something new and wonderful about myself.

OK, that sounded a lot more poignant in my head.

After convincing them that I was whole, heart-ful, and that I didn’t have little people inside me, I was ushered into a cubicle to change into their distinctly-second-hand-feeling gown. From there, I was escorted into the room that was the source of the throbbing I heard from outside.

The MRI itself is smaller than I imagined. That’s what I thought at first. There was a tray alongside it that you’re meant to plop yourself on, as you’re wheeled into the belly of the beast. I can tell you I felt a bit like a gingerbread man hopping into an oven.

The nurse told me that the MRI was loud, and handed me a pair of headphones to listen to the radio. When asked if I had any station preference, I tried to think if I’d seen any tweets from a specific Cork blogger mentioning any radio appearances today. When I couldn’t think of any, I just said any. On came Spin 103.

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“Oh great, “quality” talk radio“, I thought, wondering what they were discussing.

You know the way you’re not meant to move during an MRI?

Yeah, trust me to have an MRI at the same time they’re discussing boob jobs, and ask listeners to text in their favourite words for breasts.

No joke. So there I was, in an MRI, trying to stay still, and funbags and “kazonkas” were being discussed through headphones.

I couldn’t stop giggling like a school girl. Yes, that’s me. Any hint of maturity goes out the window when “gazoombas” are brought into the conversation.

The worst part came when I accidently pressed the emergency buzzer they gave me while chortling. Oh how embarrassing.

* grows up a little bit *

A few minutes later, the MRI fired up and the real noise began. Incessant pulsing, beating and hammering. It sounds like an army of drummers pounding off the sides, which would usually appease me, but when you’re quite literally neck deep in an MRI, can get uncomfortable. I used to just be getting used to one noise when it’d suddenly change and I’d jolt, which would make me feel guilty for moving. For some reason, whenever I try to stay still, especially when lying on my back, I can’t, and parts of my body, especially legs, will twitch. Not helpful.

Despite the talk of meshugganas on the radio, I did begin to get claustrophobic, and welcomed the 30 second freedom when they took me out to put my knee into a space suit head cage thing, to keep it still.

Overall, I was in the MRI machine itself for roughly 20 minutes. Not even the Winnie the Pooh stickers that my nose was three inches away from could entertain me and I (excuse the pun) tuned out of the boob radio show.

Ah well. It’s over now, and I’m still alive.

I should have the results, and maybe even a cause to the pain, within a few days. We live and wait.