Online Medical Degree Part 2: The Musical
If you are just joining us, you will need to go and read this post first to get you up to speed. Where was I? Oh, yeah, almost killed…dodge ball….MRI, got it. So anyway, next Tuesday comes and I hobble myself into sub waiting room 4C in lobby number 5, level 3. The magazine selection is much better in lobby 2, but the point is moot because I’ll be spending my afternoon in a trailer. The 4 story 27 Doctor office megalopolis doesn’t have it’s on MRI machine, so the local Health care Capo sends over his 3 million dollar tractor trailer mobile MRI machine once a week. The perturbed Certified Nursing Assistant who would obviously rather be doing body shots with her Phlebotomy lab partner calls me back and proceeds to leave me in the dust. After consulting her GPS clipboard locator she comes back to find me 27 feet away from the door she left me at. I told her; “It’s not that I’m old or disoriented, it’s that I’VE GOT A VERY PAINFUL YET TO BE DETERMINED KNEE INJURY THAT WILL REQUIRE A LITTLE PATIENCE ON YOUR PART!” She was acting like I’d just given her an overflowing urine sample with no lid. My raised voice raised some eyebrows and I was quickly smothered by 3 more attendants trying to improve my visit. What if I had been a Secret Shopper? That girl would have been so screwed. Needs Improvement scores for sure. We made it to the trailer and I was put on the “Patient Lift”. U Haul calls it a couch lifter.
Once inside the trailer, things got worse. The cute MRI tech was clearly being stalked by the data entry technician and she wasn’t happy about it. I felt like I’d walked into a Lionel Richie song. The guy was shameless, clueless and obviously relentless. “Your hair looks great today, did you get it cut?” She rolled her eyes at me and quickly led me into the back of the trailer mumbling something about restraining orders and Taser guns. At least we left the tech area before we both had to hear him say something like; “Your name must be VISA, because you’re everywhere I want to be.” She gave me the proverbial paper gown and told me to make sure all metal objects were in the safe with my wallet, wedding ring and dignity. Wow, I did have a little left; until now. They must have thought they were going to the Pediatricians office today because the gowns they brought were tailor made for elementary schoolers. No one over the age of nine had a nun’s chance at a Prop 8 rally of getting the back of that thing closed. I sheepishly asked for another and she smiled and said; “Just take this” and handed me one of the sheets they place on the MRI bed. It felt like a Toga party, but at least I didn’t look like a Thanksgiving turkey in a French Fry bag.
They positioned my knee where they needed it and told me to remain as still as possible for the next FORTY FIVE MINUTES! Good Lord, puberty didn’t last that long. About 4 seconds before they turned the machine on my life flashed before my eyes. I was in the machine up to my chest and it occurred to me that my mind wasn’t exactly hitting on all cylinders concerning full disclosure during the “METAL” portion of the directions. “WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!!” I yelled over the din of the MRI machine’s nuclear reactor-like warming up phase; “I HAD A VASECTOMY AND THEY USED METAL CLAMPS!” I managed to get all of that out before almost passing out. The MRI tech was smiling at me when I came to, thinking that now she had 2 restraining orders to procure, no doubt. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s mainly for pacemakers and such”, she told me. Great. Information I could have used about 20 seconds ago. The deafening hum (they gave me ear plugs) was at full tilt, the lights started going on, I started to feel a tingle someplace that had metal that WAS NOT of the pacemaker type and then I fell asleep. Or passed out from fear and shock, I’m not sure which, but when I opened my eyes again it was all over. After I got dressed and was checking out with the MRI tech, I told her; “You might want to revise that pacemaker only disclaimer”. I felt like a skateboarder who had unsuccessfully tried to grind a hand rail; ultimately straddle bombing it from 12 o’clock high instead. The pain wasn’t excruciating, but then, neither is a root canal. “Really?”, she said, “I’m sorry”, and then she related the story to her stalker who quickly shot me an evil look. It was time for me to go. I was obviously cramping this young man’s style and who was I to stand in the way of this budding, toxic relationship? I hobbled (knee) and waddled (crotch) back to my car and drove home. What a week I’m havin’. Damn; there’s the doorbell. I’ll be right back with the conclusion; I swear…..