“There are forty-five ceiling tiles in this MRI room. Right?”
This was my rather odd response to the Radiologist’s “Any other questions?” rhetorical inquiry. Looking back, I knew he didn’t expect me to add any more to the eight, or was it nine questions I had previously asked, seeing as I was already lying on the table about to go in.
“I’m not sure, but give me a minute, I’ll count and confirm,” was somehow the most helpful and unhelpful response I could have received, but it was okay. At least, it meant he wanted to help. Truthfully, I just wanted more time to psych myself up and to get a mental picture of the length of the MRI tunnel itself before I go in, but I wanted to count it myself, for confirmation.
“There are eighty one tiles. Close.”
There was nothing close about that. I’m sure he just wanted to make me feel good. Bless his heart, but the question was purposeful; I didn’t really believe the room had only the tiles I could see before the tunnel, or did I? I’m not all that sure of things again. Eighty one meant the room was a 9×9 tile square, and since I could count five tiles just before the tunnel entrance, the tunnel itself was four tiles long. Oh-, that is a lot! I had unfortunately done the opposite of psyching myself up. I was now in deep panic.
Being the last of five children, I had already mastered the subtle-not-so-subtle art of expressing discomfort. I took three very deep breaths and sighed. Could I really do this? Will I even be able to breathe in such a space?
Probably sensing my internal conflict, he remarked,
“It opens at the back. It’s not closed”.
“Really?” Not the most groundbreaking discovery, but a big relief for me.
“Yes, it does. It’s an open cylinder.”
Oh, thank gracious, there was light at the end of this tunnel after all. Just one slight problem: my tiles distance calculation was no longer useful for my spatial awareness, and I needed it to be.
“Can I take a look at the back?” I asked in the most apologetic of tones, because I figured if the tables were turned and I were the Radiologist (or was it Radiographer? He explained the difference minutes ago, but I have forgotten, again!) I’d have become impatient.
“No problems, you can,” he retorted rather dryly, but I didn’t mind. I knew I had taken more time than the average patient. Before he could even bring down the table, I hopped down and scurried towards the back, just to see how many tiles it contained and to look into the tunnel from behind.
“One and a half tile!” I thought out loud, a little too loud. Before he could walk towards me at the back, I had scurried back to the table, helped myself up, and lay down in my former position, face up. I was ready for the scan; two and a half tiles wasn’t so bad.
“I’m ready. Let’s start.”
He was all too relieved to get started, so he didn’t even bother to clarify my exclamation about the tiles, but I could see the puzzled look on his face.
“Keep your eyes closed, I’ll tell you when you can open them,” he said as he moved me into the tunnel, the two-and-a-half-tile-long tunnel. After a few clicks on the machine, he left. He never told me when to open my eyes, and on trying to reach him to ask if I could, I noticed I hadn’t picked up the panic button after getting back on the table.
Now, I had two main options: scream at the top of my lungs so he’d somehow hear me, or just stay and get it over with. After all, he said it’d take just fifteen minutes. Oh, what the heck? I chose the latter.
About a minute after, the machine made the first set of sounds, and it jerked me into remembering that I had taken off the earplugs when I came down and didn’t put them back on. I could stay still no longer. After about a minute of rhythmic noises, I finally had silence, a silence that was interrupted almost immediately by the voice of the Radiologer.
“Is everything okay, sir? You seem to be moving.”
It was my chance to report the state of affairs in the tunnel for the last seven or so minutes (I was in truth just below three minutes).
“I forgot the button… And the earplugs,” I said, trying very hard to mask my panic.
“Oh, sorry. My bad,” he blurted, rushing in almost immediately and handing me a new pair of earplugs, followed by the button.
That actually did it.
This time, he was careful enough to tell me when I could open my eyes. I did not heed because I had noticed, while coming out prior, that the roof of the tunnel was frighteningly close to my face, and I didn’t want to test my resolve any further.
Thirty minutes later (in truth, it was just nineteen minutes), I was done with the scan.
I was less eager to leave after the examination because I needed at least an idea of where I stood. You see, I am truly the last of five children; the last one standing, and I needed to know if there’ll be anyone standing in the next ten years. My sister died three years ago, and I remember her telling me how she really hoped that the family plague had truly skipped me. That was when she could still talk. We never mention the name. It’s bad luck to do so. We both thought it had skipped us before she started forgetting things and losing the use of her limbs. We had lost our three elder siblings almost three decades ago in quick succession after pretty much the same symptoms. Being fifty-eight, I had actually lived longer than all my siblings before me, but nobody wants to die, not me at least. The Neurologist said we’ll know for sure after the MRI, and I needed to know for sure as soon as possible. Neurolo-gist, Radiolo-gist, so yeah, I was right, the guy is a Radiologist.
“Radiologist, sir, if there’s something wrong in my brain, will you be able to see it immediately?”
“Radiographer,” he corrected, and paused, as if giving himself time to come up with a full response.
“Sometimes.”
“What about now? What do you see?”
“You’ll see it in your report, sir. That will be available tomorrow”
“So you can’t tell me anything now? Anything at all?” I probed further because tomorrow seemed like a lifetime away.
“It doesn’t always get to the next day, it can be available earlier but you have to wait till tomorrow for it to be sent to your registered email address. Also, I’m sorry, I cannot tell you what I see.”
Oh wow, so he did see something. Well, fifty-eight is not a bad age. I mean, it could be more, but it is still not bad. I have about twenty hours to confirm my existing fears. I’ll wait, and hope.