MRI

This morning I had my magnetic resonance imaging done. 

I was positioned belly down on a frame that had a place for my forehead and cheeks to rest, and a pair of neat plexiglass margarine tubs for my breasts to hang out in. The machine itself was ginormous, and reminded me of something that would have been considered space-age in 1985. Click HERE to hear the exclamation that actually came to my mind when I saw the machine for the first time.



I didn't have my camera with me, but here's more or less what I looked like, except my outfit was cuter.



The procedure had been explained to me quite well. I knew it would be a snug fit in there, I knew I'd be face down and enter feet first. What no one prepared me for was the noise. Whoa! They actually gave me noise "cancelling" head phones, but I'm certain no amount of cancelling could drown out the noises I heard. It struck me that because I was face down with my eyes closed, this was really an auditory experience more than anything else.

Remember elementary school fire drills? You hated being in that one class that had to line up nearest the loud speaker because it was truly a deafening sound? That.

Remember land line phones back in the day? When you left them off the hook too long they started blaring that busy signal on steroids sound? That.

Remember Ms. Pac Man? Ditch the cute music and imagine you're eating a row of dots that stretches into infinity. That.

Remember Forrest Gump playing ping pong incessantly on that L shaped ping pong table? That.


I was in the tube (think life-size cardboard toilet paper roll) for about 30 minutes. I was not allowed to move my body in any way. If I needed to clear my throat or breathe deeply, I had to do it when it was "quiet," which was when it only sounded like tennis shoes in the dryer.

This is what I looked like before the procedure in my very flattering double muumuu:

 

And this is what I looked like after the procedure. You've heard of bed-head? I had MRI-face. Not a great look for me.

Next we wait for the MRI reports, but I'm not sure how those will be delivered to me. I'm meeting with Dr. Schrader, the breast surgeon in town (see what I did there?), on Friday. She will have access to the MRI images, but not necessarily the reports. Her receptionist assured me she'd be able to 'read' them anyway, even without the report.

I'm sure Dr. Schrader will be able to answer all my questions about surgery, but what about chemo and radiation? What about survival rates and such? At what point will I be getting an oncologist? I'm feeling a little in limbo.

One thing that's unsettling is that the technician who took my MRI images today knows more about my cancer than I do. She knows if it's reached my lymph nodes. I do not. That's just icky.



Okay I can't sign off on an icky note, so here's something to make you smile.

Alternate uses for my probably-soon-to-be-defunct bras:

P.S. I had forgotten that my mom did a funny blog about getting an MRI several years ago. Perhaps our apprehension and penchant for writing it up is a genetic trait! See her take on the dreaded MRI here.