In the days leading up to the MRI, I thought about little else. I know: dumbass. I was just diagnosed with cancer and I'm worried about an MRI? Well, yes!
I tried to analyze my feelings, because I knew it wasn't reasonable to be so freaked out about a forty-five minute procedure when I was facing surgery, radiation therapy, maybe even chemo. But I was. The only thing I could come up with was this: the previous MRI treatment was a last-ditch effort to kill my uterine fibroid and save my fertility. It failed. Maybe, somewhere in my brain, I was equating the whole MRI process with the largest loss I've faced in my life: the loss of the family I will never have. Not just children, but grandchildren as well. I don't let myself think about it too much.
Needless to say, I flunked the MRI.
I went into the appointment on time, stayed calm while the nurse started my IV, joked with the tech right up until she and the nurse shoved me, face down and feet first, into the mouth of the machine. Then I lost it. I waved my hands up and down, praying I could get their attention. I didn't even bother with the panic button.
They pulled me out of there as quick as I went in, but there was no going back. They said my skin was bright red and felt very hot. I think they thought I was going to pass out. I thought I was going to barf. I really wanted to sit up but the nurse vetoed that. She told me to go ahead and toss my cookies, but please try to aim away from her since she didn't have extra shoes in her locker.
Fifteen minutes, one glass of ice water, and many apologies later, they sent me back to Walker. I had to call Dr C and request sedatives, then come back and try again a couple days later.