MRI

Saturday, February 02, 2019

On first feeling knee pain, I figured that whatever might be wrong would self-heal. After two months of pain and with difficulty walking, I sought medical help. An orthopedic specialist diagnosed my knee as having a “meniscus tear”–a condition fixable by orthoscopic surgery, during a half-hour in which I’d be an outpatient, and afterward with a relatively brief healing period. This initial diagnosis needed confirmation by an MRI.

A few days later in Charles Hospital, I donned a hospital gown and padded from a dressing area to another room, chilly and with a giant machine hovering. The on-duty techs positioned me onto a guerney-like sliding bed and positioned my leg and knee for the imaging. They said, “For 27 minutes you’ll be inside a machine-tunnel and must remain still as possible.” They provided earplugs and an emergency button and promised that my head would be outside the tube. The deal was that my painful knee had to be at tunnel-center, and oh well, but too bad, I’m too short for my knee to be in the center and my entire head outside. So, I got slid-in up to my nose. It could have been worse.

I hoped to put myself into a zen mode before the machine noises began, but my earplugs slipped out exactly when early loud thumpings began. I reset the plugs which again slid, but oh well, I could squeeze the alarm device if racket became too terrible. Seconds ticked by and noises became louder, more vigorous. I wondered how to tolerate the 27 next clausterphobic minutes. Said to myself, “Keep trying to zen, zen, zen, and then, ZZZ.”

Suddenly, I remembered many years ago having worked with a fellow who described his experience of being forced to deal with a dreadful toothache while trapped on a long air flight. He said that his only recourse was to try “getting into the pain”. This he managed to do and it helped. Recalling his story, I decided to try “getting into the noise” of my machine. To start, I listened to identify The Big Punches–booms, slashes, poundings–and their Interspersed Patterns–stretches of rhythmic punches. Focusing on these, I imagined myself listening to a piece by Phillip Glass. (Had his inspirations arisen from experiences like this!) Soon, as a matter of fact, I began to compose my very own, “Rhythmic Ode For Jazz Percussion.

Friends, I got into the noise! Almost felt a little sad when a voice interrupted my musings, “It’s over.” The techs slid me out and sent me off to the dressing room. For a few moments, I simply sat in there feeling awed, and yet again, reflecting and marveling at the human brain’s efficiency, its ability to adjust to circumstances.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day, and go with the flow. Diana