Time to face the music
Having spronged a foofer valve in my back some six weeks ago, I’m in the midst of the medical profession – a fact which displeases me.
My foofer valve has caused the muscle under my shoulder blade to do the mambo with a vengeance, and for the nerves going down both arms to practice their imitations of lightning from time to time. It has not been a barrel of laughs.
So, in one of my sojourns medically speaking, I was sent off for the second MRI of my life.
The first one, several years ago, I naturally approached with a fair bit of trepidation, having heard the claustrophobic nature of the beast. To my absolute delight, I was offered earplugs and my choice of music to help me endure it all, and the worst thing I found was trying to keep still all the while wanting to bop along to the Eagles, Beach Boys, Beatles and Doobie Brothers.
Off I trotted, full of confidence, for this latest one. I’m an old pro after all by now.
As the nurse led me to the chamber, I let her know in a very chipper voice, “'60s music please.”
“Oh, no," she responded with heartfelt sorrow, “our music’s been down for two weeks.”
Well, bugger, I thought. Oh well, never mind. I will soldier on.
Being in the time of Covid, I wasn’t allowed to wear my street clothes this time, but had to don a hospital gown. I was encurtained in a cubicle in which to achieve this feat, where I opened the gown to be faced with tapes and seemingly bolts of fabric, none of which resembled gowns I’ve known in the past, until I realized that one of the sleeves was not press-studded together. I fixed that little annoyance, and did the tapes up at my neck, but was somewhat stumped about the others down below.
Poking my head out of the curtain, I addressed the gals sitting at their computers: “Ah, gals? I know I shouldn’t need a science degree to get into this thing, but I’m having just a minor technical problem with the tapes.” Chuckling away, one came to my rescue and I was escorted to my torpedo tube.
Armed – or should it be "eyed" – with my sleep mask, I prepared to snuggle down for my 20-minute photo-shoot, knowing without the music it could be a tad loud.
Yes, well – imagine you’re face down on the sidewalk, and the workers have been sent in to jack-hammer carefully around your head ... for 550 hits (yes, I counted them) for each of the two photos. Other assorted crashes and booms ensued to the point I wondered if I would come out not only with a spronged back but with hearing loss.
But you know what? Thank God for a sense of humor.
Emerging from my cocoon when my perky little nurse announced I was all finished and I’d done “really well," I hit her with my parting bon mot:
“Don’t know about you, love, but that techno music is crap.”
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.