RECOVERY

My first MRI.

Last Thursday.

I don’t tend to ask medical questions.

I don’t tend “to do” medical things.

After being sick for a decade, medical things and I had a big break up.

So . . . having an MRI, hearing myself say “I’m having an MRI” to some friends felt strange – like I was finally joining the masses of humanity. Growing up and getting reasonable – suddenly.

But still, I didn’t ask any questions.

Just made an early morning appointment, didn’t wear any metal – which if you know me was a bit challenging – and showed up bleary eyed with a bunch of workers comp folks.

I had heard it was loud. Told that if you have issues with being in confined spaces, it might be tough.

I don’t consider myself claustrophobic. Throw my 5’3 and hopefully ¼ frame into a crowd of thousands and I am happy as a clam. I will even lead you taller humans through this crowd.

Put me in a hot elevator with a bunch of sweating people – just fine. Crowded concerts and the T on Red Sox day . . . perfect. I love watching people.

But . . . put me on my back in a confined space with the ceiling a few inches from my eyeballs . . .

TERROR!!!

I was born a Libra with an older brother who was exciting and charismatic, and a mom with the same charms. It never occurred to me to outwardly rebel. You wouldn’t catch me throwing a temper tantrum or chucking my food on the floor. However, a very independent soul was hiding out beneath this serene surface. (Aquarian moon!)

I carefully picked my methods for self-assertion.

When I was an infant, I refused to crawl. I also did not begin walking at “the normal time.” Instead, I devised my own method of transportation:  I rolled on the floor, from one end of the house to the other . . . which frequently resulted in trapping myself, supine, underneath the family couch!

And I DO REMEMBER THIS!

I remember metal coils right at my eyeballs – and then being paralyzed!

(I think I had to be rescued.)

(This I don’t remember.)

So . . . the thought of being in some loud enclosed plastic donut was daunting.

Okay . . . terrifying.

But, I didn’t let on.

____ ____ _____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____

They call my name, and a door in the tiny waiting room opens and some tech waves me in. I had imagined this MRI room would be somewhere deep within the annals of this Beverly Hills Office Building, but it seems like it’s just a part of the waiting room.

Tech guy hands me some shriveled yellow earplugs. I ask for the music and headphones I read about online. He shakes his head no. I try to ignore the donut taking up the entire room and put in the earplugs.

They don’t go in.

Tech guy is getting antsy as I try to squish them in my ear and nervously tell him I have weird ears – sorry – most things don’t fit inside me – and realize how that sounds, and there’s nowhere good to go with that . . .

He keeps jerking his head toward the “bed” that he has pulled out for me . . . looks at his wrist. I guess we are on a tight schedule. Shit. All of those worker comp guys just behind the door.

I’m out of time.

I drop the earplugs – shrug and climb onto my hard white palette.

Close eyes.

Close eyes before going in.

I do.

I can do this! I meditate every morning for 20 minutes!

I am a healer.

I am a psychic.

An astrologer.

I CAN DO THIS!!!

In I go.

Okay.

Breathe.

No – don’t breathe a lot.

Not like in PT – where I seem to fail at my breathing exercises.

Breathe shallow or I might move.

What happens then? If I move?

I’ve been told not to move, but if I do . . .

I fail?

I don’t get fixed?

I lose something – or god forbid – I have to do THIS AGAIN?

I focus on breathing not breathing – and keeping my eyes shut.

And then the first loud noises – like some weird mutant Godzilla sized woodpecker.

Ok. I’m doing ok.

I can handle this. No problem.

Wait, my left leg twitched.

I didn’t do it.

It did it –  my leg – not my fault.

Does this count as moving?

Oh shit . . . the thing I am on is moving or adjusting.

FUCK!

Eyes almost opened – and then:

ARTILLERY FIRE LOUD!!!

Eardrums freaking out – left one popping.

Oh shit. Not good without noise cancellation.

What if this ruins my ears – and my “golden ears” for producing are shot.

SHIT!

Ok . . . breathe . . . shallow.

Sound stops . . . I see . . . Europe.

Yes, lavender fields, good. I can do this, my own guided meditation.

FUCK!!!!!

ARTILLERY AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

So loud in eardrums it flutters my eyelid almost open.

Oh shit.

I’m in a trench.

GAS MASK ON!

Artillery . . . fire . . . bombs . .

What the hell? I’m in dirt . . . no mud.

Cold wet mud . . . frightened . . next to other young men . . .

HOLY SHIT!

I’m having some WW1  “recovered memory”  or past life flash . . . but where the hell am I? What battle?

I search the scene for clues . . .

Now Godzilla woodpecker is back. I don’t need him.

 Silence.

I am finding the silent moments are actually harder than the artillery. The anticipation of that barrage is worse than when it happens. And I want to go back . . . find out what battle I am in . . .

Fuck!

My right toe just curled on its own.

Not me! I swear!

BAM!!!⇒!!!!!!!⇒!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!!!!⇒BAM!!!!!!

Back in the trenches.

Fuck! I’m going to die here. Blown to bits by the Germans.

I don’t want to die like this!!!

Trench adjusts. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Shallow.

Gasmask is choking me.

Think of my girlfriend back home.

Wait. I don’t have one.

Fuck, I’ve got to do this alone.

!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>!!!!!!>>>>>>>~!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

BAM BAM!!!!!!!!! . . . ! More Artillery.

This is intense!

I knew about WW2 – when I was a French girl with an American lover who left me in Alsace Lorraine – but WW1?????

I’m an American or Brit guy . . . in a trench . . . with a fine taut body underneath my torn uniform . . . green eyes . . . this is cool . . .

Damn.

Pulled out of trench back to Wilshire. Beverly Hills.

To being a girl.

Shouldn’t the woodpecker be back?

Still silent. Don’t move.

I’m still under something. I can feel the enclosure around me – hard white plastic . . .

I want to open my eyes.

I dare not.

I can’t lose it this close to the end.

I made it through WW1.

I can’t lose it in a cold room all by myself  inside a machine – in Beverly Hills!

I feel my body pulling out of a tunnel.

Something touches my right shoulder.

“You’re done.”

Tentatively, I open my eyes to fluorescent lighting and the tech guy smiling down at me. Nicer than before.

“You okay?”

I nod – roll up and off my palette.

Walk out into the lobby with another lifetime ahead of me … and another one behind me.

Recovered.

RECOVERY.

 

(It is the 100 Year Anniversary of the Start of WW1).