I Got an F in the MRI

No more than 5 minutes in the machine and I’m frantic to get out. Face down, eyes closed, breasts in a cage, forehead resting on an inverted face cradle, ears plugged against the horns and sirens and buzzers, breathing only through my nose, arms extended above my head, feet first into the machine, commanded to be still.

I have an IV needle in my left arm into which dye will be injected at the 15-minute mark, and a rubber ball in my right hand with which to call for help, if I need it. And I need it. I want out. Now.

I’d open my eyes, but there’s nothing to see; it’s dark and I’m only three or four inches away from the sled on which I’ve been fed into this contraption. I’m afraid if I open my eyes, I’ll raise my head, and bang the back of my skull on the top side of the capsule, which will truly make me panic. I’m breathing deeply through my nose – unable to breathe through my mouth, which remains pressed against the white sheet covering the top of the cage in which my breasts hang like pale puddings.  My heart is hammering.  It’s cold, but I can feel sweat pricking my skin from scalp to toes.

I’ve already listened to the machine cycle a complete series of whatever it’s doing – warning bells, sirens, silence, buzzing, more silence, whirring, silence again – and it’s begun a second set. I’ve no idea how long a cycle takes: two minutes? three, tops. So, a dozen more before the dye, and fifteen more after that. I can’t do it. I can’t stay.

I’m faint. If I was vertical, I’d be woozy. I’m frightened. And, apparently, I’m a quitter. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to squeeze the ball, or press down with my thumb on what might be a button on its upward end. So, I do both. Repeatedly. The technician asks me if I need help, and I tell her I need her to take me out. When she does -- almost quickly enough -- I’m weak and wobbly and chilled and on the verge of vomiting. And I can’t imagine another 30 minutes in the machine. Children can do this; why can’t I?

I capitulate. I apologize. I leave.