Singing in the MRI

Claustrophobia?  I was cured of it many years ago when I had my very first MRI.  Only because of the tech.  What a sweetie she was and I truly could not have done it without her.

At the time I was overweight-to put it lightly-and the machine was O L D.  If it wasn't the very first one ever built, it had to be a close second.  It looked like it was held together with baling wire, bubble gum, and bobbi  pins.

The tech was also the receptionist. She ushered me into a large room with a small, round, metal tube. Stuffing me into that miniscule hole made me feel like a reluctant sausage being forced into a too small casing.  Her words, "If you move, I'll have to start over," horrified me.  My tics, although rare, had begun.  I had visions of an involuntary jerk causing her to start over--and over--and over.  Would I be stuck in that contraption for the rest of my life?

Once inside, the tech, who was sitting behind a screen-not in a different room as they do today-began a running dialog that she continued for the entire hour, never once stopping.  How she managed to breath and talk at the same time is a miracle I desperately needed.  It kept my mind off my tics and possibly spending eternity trapped inside that vile machine.

She never made clear whether starting over meant just one particular segment or the whole shebang. Regardless, the tics were never severe enough to interfere with the test.  The strange thing is, to this day, I don't know why the test was done, but I was introduced to the rigors of the MRI.  None were nearly as bad since that time.

It's almost become routine.  I had one done yesterday, which is why I am writing about it today.  As I said, the techs are no longer in the room with me, so I need something to distract me.  Ear plugs soften the roars, shrieks, buzzes, clicks, and thumps, but the mind is still active.  Unfortunately, my tics have increased over the years, both in intensity and frequency, so I am compelled to warn the tech that there may be a problem.  Fortunately, today, the need to start over is only for the ruined segment, not the whole thing.

Thanks to that first tech, I no longer fear the dreaded hole, but the tics still concern me.  I have no desire to hear the tech scream again, "Hold still!" even though she knew I couldn't help it.  That's where my relationship with the Lord comes in.  The closeness of the walls around me, the ungodly sounds seeping through the ear plugs aren't bothersome,and the tics seem to drop in severity and intensity.  Only that one time were they bad enough to force the tech to start over and yell at me.

As a child, contemporary churches were non-existent.  I learned hymns and Scripture.  More than just memorized and forgotten, they are lodged deep in my brain and buried in my heart.  The instant the gurney begins to roll me backwards, I close my eyes and begin to sing "Because He Lives," or "Wonderful Grace of Jesus," or "Holy, Holy, Holy."  I quote the 23rd Psalm, Proverbs 3:5-7," or others that come to mind as the background noise softens still more.  Time constraints must be avoided as something to think about at all costs.  Often, the tech will let me know how much time has lapsed and how much is left.  It doesn't hurt, either, that today's MRI's are not nearly as long as the first one.  Usually, they're ten minutes.  Some have lasted as long as 30, but never an hour.

So often the words, "I don't know how people live without the Lord," seem like a cliche and I don't like to say them.  They seem sanctimonious, too, but to be honest, I truly don't know how people endure the few minutes of an MRI without calling upon God, let alone the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that strike us all continually.  In fact, when I'm watching a scary movie, I start thinking, "Right about now, I'd be praying if I were in that situation."

I'm so grateful God cares about the little things as well as the big ones.  Even the ten minutes in a noisy, cramped machine.  I'm even grateful we have those machines so doctors can make a more accurate diagnosis.  I'm still more grateful for the eyes of faith.  They're a gift from God.