Ever Been Buried Alive?

When you schedule a scan, be it a CT, MRI, Bone Scan, or PET, they always ask, "are you claustrophobic?" "Not me," I always say, with a verbal swagger.

Well, after yesterday, consider my swagger muted.

Yesterday began with an 7:00a MRI of my hip at Emory University Hospital. I've had fewer MRI's than each of the other aforementioned scan types, so I'd forgotten some of the details of the procedure, such as how long it takes, and how friggin' tight the hole is in that machine.

This picture gives you a feel for the contraption. It's about 4 feet deep, and to get a good view of my hip, I was slid in to the point where my upper lip was even with the outside edge of the machine.  My head was on two pillows, and I had on some bulky headphones to help drown out the noise from the magnets and motors buzzing around me.

I wasn't strapped down per se, but I did have the plastic plate pictured across my waist, and it was strapped to the table. They told me I was allowed to move my arms, but once I was inside, there wasn't room for me to do so.

Importantly, I also had a panic button in my right hand. After the first two Eagles tunes finished playing through the headphones (via the Pandora Classic Rock channel), I began to feel a little uncomfortable. An Aerosmith song later, I tightened my grip on the panic button. When a Don Henley solo track finished, I was in a full sweat, and my mind kept wandering back to the season finale of The Following, in which an FBI agent is buried alive.  SPOILER ALERT - she dies.

Finally, I hit the button. An angelic voice from the control room asked me if I was OK, and I replied in the negative. She explained to me that I was 1 minute into this particular scan and I had 4 minutes to go. I closed my eyes, swallowed for what I imagined might be the last time, and said I could make it 4 minutes.

She stayed with me, like a 911 operator, until the scan finished, and she rushed in to slide me out. "How much longer?" I asked. "15 minutes," she answered. I'd been in about 25. She let me stay out as long as I needed, bringing me a cold washcloth and some water to sip. We ditched the bulky headphones, repositioned the pillows, changed my arm position. Then she gave me the thing that anyone who's been buried alive would tell you they wish they had... an oxygen tube. I was able to use it as a mini-fan, blowing it on my face and neck for the next 15 minutes while we completed the scans in two 7 1/2 minute sessions.

Note to self -  next time you need an MRI, ask for the oxygen line before they slide you into the coffin.