The almighty whir-clack-clang of the machine has to be heard to be believed. It’s loud. Hella loud. Internet radio on headphones cannot compete, and Pandora’s idea of generic “alternative rock” is 90’s era Bush, Stone Temple Pilots and Red Hot Chili Peppers, stuff I consider elevator music by now.
Maybe I should have picked opera.
The air blowing through the tube, the weird positioning because of course it’s face down and your various parts have to go in various slots and it’s like the most uncomfortable massage table ever, and then– then you can’t move when the godsawful racket starts in– well. Everyone’s MRI is different, I guess, but everyone is probably the same in that it’s disorienting as hell, trying not to think too much while you’re essentially alone in that tube, waiting for the tech to say it’s okay to shift that half-inch that’s going to relieve that itch in your neck, that crawl under your skin, that whirring dizziness that comes with the contrast injection or maybe just too much cool air over too-naked skin.
The fact that at least I got hospital pants to compensate for the flapping-in-the-MRI-machine-breeze bits of my johnny’s not really a comfort, and while the tech was a pro and it wasn’t that long, all in all, as some scans could be, nor nearly as painful (mammography is, and always shall be, horrid, despite all the blessings clear pictures can bring) it’s a weird feeling, off– to have to surrender, to wait, to listen to horrible rock that I “chose” but not really, to lie still against too many thoughts mundane, benign, and elsewise– to wait, until the results are all in and I can move, once again.