I got an MRI the other day. I had one done back in 2000 but I don’t remember the machine being quite so noisy that time. In fact, back then, the technician asked what type of music I liked and played a CD for me through the tube so I could groove without moving. Not this time, though. This time I was handed a set of earplugs and was warned that the machine would be “a little loud.” Lucky for me, I got to groove without moving anyway.
In addition to earplugs, I was given a gauzy eye mask so I wouldn’t be tempted to look around the inside of the rather narrow tunnel I was about to slide into. At least that was the explanation. I suspect it had something more to do with trying to prevent claustrophobic freak-outs and therefore time consuming and expensive do-overs.
I couldn’t see much other than gauze so I have no idea if the noises I heard during the 30 minute scan coincided with anything specific. All I know is that there were all sorts of rhythmic clicks and beeps and beats echoing all around me. I can only imagine how loud it would have been without the earplugs.
At first, the MRI’s music reminded of the classic American Bandstand review of most any new record: It had a good beat and I could dance to it. Well, figuratively dance since the only movement I was allowed to make was breathing. (At least they conceded that much.) As the scan continued, the dance beat changed randomly and sometimes there were several beats at the same time. I eventually left Dick Clark behind and transitioned to an early ‘90s dance club with electronica music. In fact, I almost wondered if the tech was playing a CD for me after all. I mean, I’m sure my carefully chosen metal-free attire just exuded “digs electronica.”
Just as I was wondering whatever happened to my small wardrobe of hip, black, dance club gear, the beat changed again and this time it was accompanied by a slight vibration of the table I was laying on. Bye-bye dance club, hello spa! Just a little more shake and it would have been an awesome massage. I started trying to figure out how to design an MRI machine equipped with those pulsating, rolling, kneading rollers that nice pedicure chairs have. I hadn’t gotten very far when suddenly my trip was over. The technician pulled me out of the tube, took off my mask, and told me my doctor would have the results next week. Sigh.
And no, I’m no longer taking the loopy muscle relaxants, why do you ask?
1 comment:
Maybe this is where European music came from. Some German guy with a brain problem, Hans, slips into the magical tube while in a coma so doctors can figure out what is wrong. During the test, he has a dream. His dream is not to better the world, or even a single person. His dream is music! But all good plans are flawed because the music is not real; it is a copy of what his brain retains while he is in the tube. It is all made up by a machine. Think about it. Lots of repeating noises, the beat changes every so often and occasionally there is a voice saying something that really has no meaning, such as “The machine is down”, or “Looks good, almost done”. Darn technology and all the evil it spawns!
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