Last week I made a momentous decision to visit the physician. Unfortunately, it wasn't Leonard McCoy (yes, I know, deForest Kelly is dead...he's dead, Jim), instead it was Fadi Abou Issa. He's wonderful. He's extraordinary. He's popular so I ended up seeing his practitioner instead, who was not so shabby, I might add.
Blood pressure: check
Weight: WTF?!?!? (ignore)
Pulse: a little high
By the end of the visit, she tacked on a list of things to do: blood work, x-ray of lungs, MRI of the brain, this, that, and those.
Today was the day of my MRI. Have you ever experienced one of those? I had a very long time ago, but apparently I had forgotten what it was all about. Of all the cotton pickin things I've had to endure throughout my life, this had to be the most unpleasant. They ... made ... me ... take ...
off my bra. Ladies, and the occasional gent, I am not Alex Gobraless. God didn't gift me with a huge set of maracas so that I can waltz into the MRI area and whip that sucker off so that them suckers could spring out. Nope. He suuuuurrrrreeee didn't. The MRI tech asked,
"Ma'am, you're going to have to remove your bra."
"You're not wearing a sports bra, are you?"
"Nope, not me."
Braless, I give new meaning to the words...ba dong ga dong (or whatever...I don't listen to country but the kids have sung it to me before).
So we stroll down the hall to the MRI machine. Let me say now, I'm so glad I'm not afeared of small spaces. That sure was small, paw paw. Well, I get into position.
"Ma'am? You'll need these ear plugs, it gets really loud in there."
"Shove them in good. It's really loud in there."
Then I'm instructed to lie down on the small, extremely narrow (my butt was just about to do unbuttly things), MRI table thing. I place my head into this cup looking device, and then he places two cylindrical things over my ears.
Because it's really loud in there.
My arms are crossed over my belly, and as I'm sliding in he hands me a rubber ball.
"This is the panic button, ma'am. Squeeze it if you panic. I'll come running."
Huh? Panic? What?
"The test will take 20 minutes. Be really still because if you move, we'll have to do it again."
It. was. really. really. REALLY. . .
As a matter of fact I felt like I was screening the music for "Flash Gordon: The Movie. Remember that one? Sung by Queen? He saved every one of us... Well...that is what it sounded like. Not only that. It would give me a series of little electric shocks beginning with my head, then shoulders, elbows, and leaving through my fingers. I almost hit the panic button because I was sure that my MRI machine was defective. It wasn't. I didn't panic, either.
Anyway, twenty minutes later, and after composing hundreds of posts, singing the lyrics to Flash Gordon, and taking small shallow breaths in order to keep my badonga dongs from moving too much (no way was I going to sit through another one of those suckers), my MRI was complete. A lovely new tech escorted me to the bra room where I reigned those suckers in, and I was on my merry way.