Welcome to my chamber . . .

I wish I could figure out how to spell that scary Dracula noise; you know the one that's like Mmmmaahhhhhahahaha. That's the best I can do. That's what I thought an MRI would be like. Some little hunchbacked guy says something like "Ms. Murphy, we are ready for you" while rubbing his hands together in mad-scientist fashion, and inside it's all dark and kinda Minority Report-esque. But that's not what it's like at all. It wasn't the least bit scary (I had an open MRI). I guess the concrete thing that's inches from one's face could cause some folks a little tremor. The room had several windows and a great view of fall foliage.

But, the noise. I think it's funny that everyone and everything, the receptionist, the first lab tech, the second lab tech, and even the questionnaire asked me about claustrophobia, but said nothing about the insane noises made by MRIs. The first noise bore some resemblance to the sound a building or a bridge makes when it's starting to collapse, only regular and steady. I thought, okay, this must be normal because if the machine was about to fall on me these nice people would probably rush in to pull me out. Right?

After that, they would warn me via the head phones when another scan was about to start and how long it was going to be. The scans themselves are only a few minutes long, which is probably really good because if you're subjected to the noises long enough, your head starts thinking that anything that makes that much noise can't be good. It's like, I suppose, a poltergeist in that respect.

So, I'm proud of myself for not freaking out. Why, you might be thinking, is this so important to her? Well, it's like problematizing and overcoming history, and I don't care what Linda Hutcheon says about the text, I'm doin' both here. Yeah, I know any former grad students who read this will accuse me of playing fast and loose with Hutcheon. Whatever! Bring it on! I'm feeling feisty today!

A little family history. Once my father was bedridden off and on for almost ten weeks. Some of you know he's 97 now, but this was years ago when he was very vigorous. He had what turned out to be a hernia and was in excruciating pain. Once, my mother almost bled to death via a slow leak that was never found, and she wound up losing 3/4 of her blood volume. I could go on with anecdotes. I could tell you about my Aunt El's leg turning blue from ankle to knee before she went to the doctor, but I think you get the point. Our family doctor was the perfect partner in crime, too. He never looked at any body parts; his office didn't even have paper gowns. I swear I'm not making that part up. Come to think of it, maybe he was actually a shaman, but one who could write prescriptions.

What's this got to do with the MRI? Well, it illustrates that part of my culture (a very profound part) is made up of lovely and beloved people who would've rather done just about anything than seek out medical help. They're not simpletons; they don't think that modern medicine itself is scary. I think they just deep down remember that when they were young people went to the doctor and often got worse, not better. Yeah, they're that old. So I grew up freaking out over every immunization, every allergy shot, probably because my poor mother started seething with anxiety just calling and making the appointment. My pediatrician deemed me "volatile" (as in, Mrs. Murphy Patricia is "volatile") as he wrote the word on my chart. I won't tell you how Dr. Stern the oral surgeon felt about my temperament. Actually, I was terrified, and well, maybe a little volatile.

So, I'm pretty proud of myself when I can handle stuff, especially something like an MRI that makes even calm people quiver a little. My bravery does have boundaries, however. I just couldn't bring myself to give consent for the contrast dye. I read the form three times and just wasn't comforted by vague statements like "in a small number of people . . . death" and the fairly substantial list of other reactions. I just kept sitting there, pen in hand, thinking jeez can I really add nausea and vomiting to my list of physical problems right now, even if it only lasts "a few days"?

I like it when I can do things that help me overcome some of the anxieties that I know we all feel, but that maybe I, thanks to nature and nurture, have too much of a tendency to give in to. I still shake my head in wonder sometimes that it took me three anxiety-filled attempts to learn how to drive, and that I didn't get a dl until I was 28 years old.

Anybody got any bravery stories for me? Jess, are you inspired to get that permit and join the rank and file of roller derby drivers on the GSP? You can do it, baby!