involuntary quiet time

I've written about quiet time before. Here , here and here. But my visit to the radiologist was a different kind of quiet time.

I'm getting an MRI in the hope that my first opinion doctor, a physical therapist and all-american soccer player with dimples, is more correct than my second opinion doctor, the one who while firing questions barely answered my own, and spoke only to condescend to me in terms I didn't know. Dimples thinks I have a herniated disk which needs only a shot or a week's worth of pills. Dr. Superior says I've torn my hamstring and tough cookies. Surgery will only make it worse. Dr. Superior has more letters after his name.

Once in my blue gown minus my book, laptop, corpse of a cell phone (it passed on 2 days ago, still waiting on my delivery) or any other supportive friend substitute, I am strapped to a table and my feet are taped together. I lie on one strange medical mat while another is placed over me. I am also given a blanket, which I don't want but assume is necessary.

I ask the technician whether or not the one tiny bobby pin in my hair matters. It does. A flash of my head being slammed against the man-made grave of wonders the moment the machine turns on flits by and exits stage left. The technician puts earphones on my head, the kind Blossom might wear, and tells me to expect some noise. The background "music" which is coming from the room and not the headphones sounds like either the swish and thump of a heartbeat with a vaguely techno accent or the soundtrack to a bad seventies porn movie.

My tray starts to move diagonally and in a few seconds I am fully submerged in my cocoon. This isn't scary. I survived being put into a locker when I was nine. I wanted to try it but I didn't think anyone would close the door. I also survived being dragged around the house in a sleeping bag not knowing where I would end up. Another naive childhood game. Are you sensing a pattern? Anyway, there is no door to shut and no blindfold or blanket to cover my face. My eyes are open.

I refuse to freak out about how close my face is to the ceiling and then the little light just above my forehead. There is a sticker that reads caution "do not look into beam when (medical equipment term I don't know) is open." Do not think of a pink elephant. Do not look at the beam. I look at the beam. Sigh. I close my eyes.

For twenty minutes it sounds like I am inside a video game being shot at by tiny robots with giant guns. It doesn't hurt, but I feel the noise pressing down on me. I really do. I feel the noise. In between attacks I hear the swish and thump of the porn star's heart. Swish and thump. Swish and thump, but after a few minutes I am calm.