MRI

Having your first MRI at age 61 is a little like getting your tonsils out when you’re an adult, an otherwise predictable life experience deferred. It turns out that several friends have had this expensive ($1,500 per scan) but generally non-invasive procedure, and at much younger ages than I.
My turn finally took place last night at Shields MRI of Cape Cod, in West Yarmouth.


I’ve had a chronic problem with my left arm for over 3 years, and talked my primary into various referrals, the last of which was to a local neurologist.
His staff booked the original MRI at Falmouth Hospital. Unfortunately, no one prepped me for the fact that their machine is a closed type, not recommended for the claustrophobic, a condition which both my sister and I endure.
The process of rescheduling to Shields, which has an open MRI, went on for several weeks. This was complicated by the fact that the neurologist changed his mind on the tests, that the tests needed preapproval by my HMO, and that the doctor’s office shut down for a week earlier this summer. By the time the preapproval arrived on one test, it had expired on the other. You get the picture. When all was said and done, I had only about a two week window to book what turned out to be a 2 hour appointment.
In the meantime, traumatized by my earlier experience, I’d been living in a state of dread. The Falmouth facility is housed, literally, in a shack tacked on to one of the hospital buildings. The careless, throw-away feeling is actually insulting not only to the skill and professionalism of the people who work there, but to the technology itself, which is a marvel.
Perhaps because the site itself looks like a primitive afterthought, it magnifies the noise of the machine and the general feeling that one is about to be interred into a coffin in the morgue.
Thus, expecting the worst, I’d planned to take a mild sedative, an Ativan derivative, before the procedure at Shields, but this would have required recruiting someone to drive me home.
Shields does offer evening appointments, which is great, but the only one I could get before the now infamous preapprovals expired was on my oldest grandchild’s birthday. Peter was willing to stretch the schedule to give me a ride, but obviously, the better course was to just tough it out, without the med.
The appointment was booked for a Friday evening in July on Cape Cod, and Shields is located mid-Cape, a good distance from where I work. So, I chose to contend with short-term weekend bridge traffic in order to avoid the drawn-out misery of crowded highways in favor of 6A, a serene and pretty drive.
Still, I was a basket case by the time I got to Shields. Fortunately, not only do they have a state of the art facility designed to minimize anxiety and maximize comfort, but their staff is exceptionally and extraordinarily kind.
When I finally was admitted to the room where the procedure was to take place, I learned to my chagrin that my skull would still be inside the MRI chamber, which caused me to panic once again.
The staff was so skillful, though, that they were able to patiently ease me, equipped with earphones (they have a choice of audio channels, I selected CNN News) and a cloth over my eyes, into the machine.
I was in the MRI chamber for probably an hour and a half and found the whole experience oddly and inexplicably relaxing. It’s difficult to explain, but the rhythmic noise from the machine itself was almost musical, and it mesmerized me into a semi-hypnotic state.
A friend told me afterwards that she’s actually fallen asleep during an MRI scan, and I can understand how this would be possible. The procedure itself produces warmth, but not an unpleasant amount, similar to what you’d feel lying on a beach in the summer.
I hadn’t found a particularly good description of the procedure online, so was very surprised when the scans themselves were only intermittent and lasted anywhere from 90 seconds to seven minutes.
In other words, there is time between scans to clear your throat and slightly shift to a more comfortable position.
The machine makes different kinds of noises. Someone had compared it to construction, but instead, it reminded me of the rhythmic sounds of ordinary household noises, like a refrigerator compressor or a washing machine.
I started tripping on other sounds with which I have a positive association, like the drilling and sautering at the company where I work, or an auto repair shop. At one point, I flashed on my mother, Marjorie, who was a surgical nurse, and even my director from work, who appeared in my mind’s eye as a solemn but kindly doctor in a white coat carrying a pen and a clipboard.
The tech explained to me afterwards that the scans which my doctor had ordered were especially challenging, and he was relieved that we were able to get through them without a single repeat.
Asked to submit a comment card, I gave him a “5” on a scale of 1-3.
Of course, I’m relieved that the tests are over and that they didn’t involve injection of dye or consumption of nasty liquids that leave your digestive tract in chaos, especially since we’re planning to attend a massive, unprecedented family reunion later today.
Most importantly for the moment, between now and when the results come in, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I overcame the fear that had been a source of no little chagrin, something that a couple of otherwise macho guys with whom I’m acquainted have been unable to do.