Post by Hath on Jun 8, 2010 7:21:59 GMT -6
I needed to have an MRI last night to help diagnose what's causing my headaches and "brain itch" that I've been experiencing the last eight months. I had a whole series of blood work done, and have an EEG scheduled for later this month, but last night was the MRI. If you don't know, I'm claustrophobic. The scene in Online, where Jen has an MRI done on her knee, and all the feelings that went along with it actually were mine own.
For this test, I didn't have anyone with me last night to drive me home, so I had to do the test "clean and sober".
Never again.
Panic
The first thing you notice is the machine. The frigid temperature of the room doesn't register for a solid minute. It's the machine that commands your attention. It looks innocuous enough; white and beige with softly glowing buttons on one side. As you get closer, you see the machine is more like a "sandwich" than the standard "donut"; the room's ambient light does come in through the back and sides.
That doesn't really matter though. Not to you.
The tech helps you get up onto the table, because you're shaking so hard, you're not sure you can do it yourself. He tells you to get comfortable on the narrow sliding platform, which is next to impossible, but you try. The molded plastic headrest is akin to what a coroner would use to prop up the head of a corpse, and as your head touches it, that's when the panic begins to bloom.
The tech places a rubber wedge pillow under your knees, trying to make you more comfortable. He hands you a panic button, explaining that he'll stop the test if you press it. What he doesn't say is that it will take longer to get the testing done if you do that, but hey, it's up to you. All you know is that you want it to be over as soon as possible. You swear to yourself that you won't press the button. No matter how tempting, no matter how scared you get, you'll see it through. Still, you clench the device in your hands, and hold it close on your chest. You're holding it so tightly that when the tech finally takes it away, your hands will take a few minutes to un-cramp, but for now, it's what you need to do.
You get headphones, piping in a local radio station, to try to keep your mind off what is about to happen. By now, the cold has permeated most of your body, and the shivering is involuntary. The tech notices, and covers you with a sterile, white blanket. The blanket covers you to your waist, and when he takes the time to tuck it around and under your bare feet, your heart swells with gratitude.
Then he slides the cage over your face, and all gratitude evaporates.
The cage is to give the machine something to focus its sites on while it spins around your head.
To you, it looks like an ancient torture device; something straight out of the Count of Monte Christo. As the tech slides rubber wedges between your head and the cage to ensure you don't move, the panic that was blooming now rushes closer to the surface.
When he leaves the room, and the table starts to slide, it explodes.
Your thumb shakes with the exertion is takes to keep it from pressing that button. In fact, you move it slightly away from the button, just so you don't press it by accident. You know, rationally, that you need to have the testing. You need to know if there is something physiologically wrong or if it is just "in your head". And once you've slammed your eyes shut, you're okay for the first few seconds of the slow ride into the belly of the machine.
Feeling a moment of braveness, you open your eyes, wanting to see if the "open" sides help the scared feeling go away. It doesn't. The fact that the sides are open doesn't help you -- you can't turn your head to see anything, and when you opened your eyes, all you saw was the cage and the top half of the machine-sandwich.
Best to shut them tightly. Very tightly.
God help you, you're still sliding. The further you slide, the tighter the neck on your oversized t-shirt feels. The further you slide, the less air there is in the room. You KNOW it's all in your head, that the room isn't really filling with earth, that you aren't really being buried alive, but you can't talk yourself out of the feeling, and now you can smell the rich, thick, cloying scent of soil all around you.
A tear escapes from the corner of your right eye, and snakes down to your ear. You can't dash it away because the slightest motion of your fingers could dislodge the panic button. And besides you've now completed your slide, in the machine up to your waist, and the top of the machine-sandwich is now a micron away from your clenched fingers. You couldn't move them if you wanted to, and you certainly don't want to feel the cold hard plastic of the machine.
Not again.
A voice in your earphones tells you "One minute for this first test".
As the machine whirs and clanks and beats all around you, you try to hold perfectly still. You know any blurred images will mean re-scanning, and if that happens, surely you will suffocate to death. Still, there is a pounding in your head that is matched perfectly to the noise of the machine, and you count each throb.
143 throbs later, the machine goes eerily quiet. That wasn't so bad, you think. Then the voice in your head comes again. "OK, you're doing great. Next series is two minutes".
You've just discovered that 143 throbs is the absolute maximum you can stand. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, until circles and swirls start to dance. Tears are streaming freely now, though you do not make a sound. Your t-shirt has now shrunk to toddler size, and even your arms are starting to tingle. You don't realize it's because your whole body is tense. You know for sure it's because the machine is slowly crushing you to death.
"Next series, two and a half minutes."
"Next series, one and a half minutes."
"Next series, two minutes."
"Next series, two and a half minutes."
"This is the next to last one; one minute. This is the really loud one though."
One minute. You know you can do one minute. You try to take a deep breath, but the amazingly loud whooping noise of the machine-sandwich startles you, and you forget to breathe. Still, it's only one minute. 143 throbs. You can do that. You can survive this. It's almost over, and the earth hasn't covered your face yet. There's still time.
"Last series, four minutes. Hang in there."
Four minutes. That's enough time for an elite runner to go one mile. That's how long it takes for your popcorn machine to turn out perfectly happy popcorn. That's a standard commercial break during your favorite prime-time television show.
That's also enough time to suffocate.
You can feel the weight on your legs, as the earth closes in. The dirt covers your pelvis, and is momentarily distracted by the machine. It finds a way to fill that micron of space between the hard plastic and your tense body, and the gritty feel of it is on your arms, in your hands. You're fully crying now, as the crumbles of decayed plant and animal matter tickle your throat. The level is rising now -- up almost to your ears. A few moments more and it will totally encompass you, and start the long, laborious process of making you one with it.
Your thumb flexes just a millimeter closer to the stop button.
Then the noise stops.
The machine is done.
The voice in your head tells you you've done great. You hear it tell you that the tech will be in to take you out of the earth -- though he said "out of the machine". You feel a hand on your ankle, squeezing it for reassurance for just a moment. How did he get his hand through the dirt? With a slight jerk, the machine starts expelling you from its grasp. Though your eyes are closed, you can sense the room getting brighter, so you know you're not really buried anymore, but you're still petrified of the cage.
You feel the tech touch your hands, wanting to take the panic button away from you. He has to gently peel your fingers away from it, and pulls the blanket up over them to try to warm them a little.
The rubber stoppers come out from against your head, and finally, FINALLY, the cage is slid away. You want to bolt from the table, from the room, but you can't move. Your body is so tightly coiled that it can't do anything but lie there. The tech takes your hand and tucks your arm under his, pressing your hand against the back of his shoulder.
"Here we go," he says, and helps you sit up. For a moment, the room is spinning, and you look around you to make sure that there are no more crumbles of earth on you. You see the pristine blanket, the clean room, and realize that you are not being pulled from a box in the ground.
The few tears that slide down your cheeks now are of relief.
Wordlessly, the tech hands you a Kleenex, and helps you out of the room, back to the locker room, where you've stowed all your gear. You rush to grab your things, needing to be outside in the air -- needing to see the endless expanse of sky. A few minutes later, you're out the door, just standing there, looking up in to the vast blue-turning-gray sky. Your t-shirt has expanded back to normal size, and you can finally breathe again.
Another ten minutes later, you're able to drive home, though remembering the fright, the panic, will make you cry the whole way.
Once you’re home, in the company of your family, you take comfort in their hugs, in their reassurances that you are in fact alright, and nothing can hurt you now.
For now they're right.
You're home, and you're safe.
For this test, I didn't have anyone with me last night to drive me home, so I had to do the test "clean and sober".
Never again.
Panic
The first thing you notice is the machine. The frigid temperature of the room doesn't register for a solid minute. It's the machine that commands your attention. It looks innocuous enough; white and beige with softly glowing buttons on one side. As you get closer, you see the machine is more like a "sandwich" than the standard "donut"; the room's ambient light does come in through the back and sides.
That doesn't really matter though. Not to you.
The tech helps you get up onto the table, because you're shaking so hard, you're not sure you can do it yourself. He tells you to get comfortable on the narrow sliding platform, which is next to impossible, but you try. The molded plastic headrest is akin to what a coroner would use to prop up the head of a corpse, and as your head touches it, that's when the panic begins to bloom.
The tech places a rubber wedge pillow under your knees, trying to make you more comfortable. He hands you a panic button, explaining that he'll stop the test if you press it. What he doesn't say is that it will take longer to get the testing done if you do that, but hey, it's up to you. All you know is that you want it to be over as soon as possible. You swear to yourself that you won't press the button. No matter how tempting, no matter how scared you get, you'll see it through. Still, you clench the device in your hands, and hold it close on your chest. You're holding it so tightly that when the tech finally takes it away, your hands will take a few minutes to un-cramp, but for now, it's what you need to do.
You get headphones, piping in a local radio station, to try to keep your mind off what is about to happen. By now, the cold has permeated most of your body, and the shivering is involuntary. The tech notices, and covers you with a sterile, white blanket. The blanket covers you to your waist, and when he takes the time to tuck it around and under your bare feet, your heart swells with gratitude.
Then he slides the cage over your face, and all gratitude evaporates.
The cage is to give the machine something to focus its sites on while it spins around your head.
To you, it looks like an ancient torture device; something straight out of the Count of Monte Christo. As the tech slides rubber wedges between your head and the cage to ensure you don't move, the panic that was blooming now rushes closer to the surface.
When he leaves the room, and the table starts to slide, it explodes.
Your thumb shakes with the exertion is takes to keep it from pressing that button. In fact, you move it slightly away from the button, just so you don't press it by accident. You know, rationally, that you need to have the testing. You need to know if there is something physiologically wrong or if it is just "in your head". And once you've slammed your eyes shut, you're okay for the first few seconds of the slow ride into the belly of the machine.
Feeling a moment of braveness, you open your eyes, wanting to see if the "open" sides help the scared feeling go away. It doesn't. The fact that the sides are open doesn't help you -- you can't turn your head to see anything, and when you opened your eyes, all you saw was the cage and the top half of the machine-sandwich.
Best to shut them tightly. Very tightly.
God help you, you're still sliding. The further you slide, the tighter the neck on your oversized t-shirt feels. The further you slide, the less air there is in the room. You KNOW it's all in your head, that the room isn't really filling with earth, that you aren't really being buried alive, but you can't talk yourself out of the feeling, and now you can smell the rich, thick, cloying scent of soil all around you.
A tear escapes from the corner of your right eye, and snakes down to your ear. You can't dash it away because the slightest motion of your fingers could dislodge the panic button. And besides you've now completed your slide, in the machine up to your waist, and the top of the machine-sandwich is now a micron away from your clenched fingers. You couldn't move them if you wanted to, and you certainly don't want to feel the cold hard plastic of the machine.
Not again.
A voice in your earphones tells you "One minute for this first test".
As the machine whirs and clanks and beats all around you, you try to hold perfectly still. You know any blurred images will mean re-scanning, and if that happens, surely you will suffocate to death. Still, there is a pounding in your head that is matched perfectly to the noise of the machine, and you count each throb.
143 throbs later, the machine goes eerily quiet. That wasn't so bad, you think. Then the voice in your head comes again. "OK, you're doing great. Next series is two minutes".
You've just discovered that 143 throbs is the absolute maximum you can stand. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, until circles and swirls start to dance. Tears are streaming freely now, though you do not make a sound. Your t-shirt has now shrunk to toddler size, and even your arms are starting to tingle. You don't realize it's because your whole body is tense. You know for sure it's because the machine is slowly crushing you to death.
"Next series, two and a half minutes."
"Next series, one and a half minutes."
"Next series, two minutes."
"Next series, two and a half minutes."
"This is the next to last one; one minute. This is the really loud one though."
One minute. You know you can do one minute. You try to take a deep breath, but the amazingly loud whooping noise of the machine-sandwich startles you, and you forget to breathe. Still, it's only one minute. 143 throbs. You can do that. You can survive this. It's almost over, and the earth hasn't covered your face yet. There's still time.
"Last series, four minutes. Hang in there."
Four minutes. That's enough time for an elite runner to go one mile. That's how long it takes for your popcorn machine to turn out perfectly happy popcorn. That's a standard commercial break during your favorite prime-time television show.
That's also enough time to suffocate.
You can feel the weight on your legs, as the earth closes in. The dirt covers your pelvis, and is momentarily distracted by the machine. It finds a way to fill that micron of space between the hard plastic and your tense body, and the gritty feel of it is on your arms, in your hands. You're fully crying now, as the crumbles of decayed plant and animal matter tickle your throat. The level is rising now -- up almost to your ears. A few moments more and it will totally encompass you, and start the long, laborious process of making you one with it.
Your thumb flexes just a millimeter closer to the stop button.
Then the noise stops.
The machine is done.
The voice in your head tells you you've done great. You hear it tell you that the tech will be in to take you out of the earth -- though he said "out of the machine". You feel a hand on your ankle, squeezing it for reassurance for just a moment. How did he get his hand through the dirt? With a slight jerk, the machine starts expelling you from its grasp. Though your eyes are closed, you can sense the room getting brighter, so you know you're not really buried anymore, but you're still petrified of the cage.
You feel the tech touch your hands, wanting to take the panic button away from you. He has to gently peel your fingers away from it, and pulls the blanket up over them to try to warm them a little.
The rubber stoppers come out from against your head, and finally, FINALLY, the cage is slid away. You want to bolt from the table, from the room, but you can't move. Your body is so tightly coiled that it can't do anything but lie there. The tech takes your hand and tucks your arm under his, pressing your hand against the back of his shoulder.
"Here we go," he says, and helps you sit up. For a moment, the room is spinning, and you look around you to make sure that there are no more crumbles of earth on you. You see the pristine blanket, the clean room, and realize that you are not being pulled from a box in the ground.
The few tears that slide down your cheeks now are of relief.
Wordlessly, the tech hands you a Kleenex, and helps you out of the room, back to the locker room, where you've stowed all your gear. You rush to grab your things, needing to be outside in the air -- needing to see the endless expanse of sky. A few minutes later, you're out the door, just standing there, looking up in to the vast blue-turning-gray sky. Your t-shirt has expanded back to normal size, and you can finally breathe again.
Another ten minutes later, you're able to drive home, though remembering the fright, the panic, will make you cry the whole way.
Once you’re home, in the company of your family, you take comfort in their hugs, in their reassurances that you are in fact alright, and nothing can hurt you now.
For now they're right.
You're home, and you're safe.
I've had 5 of them. My cousin, who's a tech, and claustrophobic hates me. 
I wish I were more "rational" in this regard, but nope. My brain is not wired that way 
