Starting a new thread here to avoid hijacking the Visual Disturbances thread.
I am highly claustrophobic, and had to go for an MRI. The MRI was for the carotid arteries in my chest and my aortic arch, so I was told it had to be done in a closed-tube machine. Panic city. Couldn't we just open up the chest again and look? It shocked me that I was such a wussy about this after having open heart surgery less than two months before.
People invoked a host of paralyzing similies to describe the tight quarters for me in excruciating psychological detail. And the quarters are tight. I don't know how they get big people in there. Do they have different tube sizes? Do they grease them down? Are there people with huge, plush-covered ramrods who come in from another room to push and stuff them inside the MRI's slick, science-fiction-plastic barrel?
I am not very large, yet I didn't really have room for my arms at my sides at all. When they activated the Army Surplus grocery store conveyor belt that wedges you into the belly of the unit (in a way not unreminiscent of O.J. Simpson attempting to shove his hands into the famous gloves), I had to hold my hands up so they wouldn't rub and catch on the nonmoving platform at my sides. The distance between my face and the ceiling above was close enough to allow me to play tic-tac-toe, had I the forethought to stick a miniature-golf-sized pencil stub in my mouth before entering.
I was given 10mg Valium to get me through it. I was pretty sure that there wasn't enough Valium in the continental U.S. to get me out the other side, but somehow it did help. I was supposed to take it exactly one hour before the test, but they were running a half-hour late, so some of the glow had faded by the time I was struggling to don the infamous backwards gown.
They put earphones on me, saying that would help. The music was poor, scratchy quality and very loud, but then I realized the real purpose was so they could give me instructions through the blasted things. I totally fell for that, and was completely sucked in. Along with the "Button" myth. I was told there would be a Button to push, if I really needed to get out. There was no Button. These techs relied on the unrelenting screaming method of notification.
The MRI machine, which I was warned would give a variety of grinding and hammering noises, was apparently set up so that those noises were masked with different toned buzzings, with a few setup clicks. So, the noise was only mildly annoying, like a friend prattling through the last five minutes of your favorite TV show.
Marguerite had sent me an excellent focal point technique, involving breathing in a triangular pattern (in, out, wait), and visualizing a triangle. She indicated it was borrowed from a class on delivery and labor, but that it had worked well for her during MRIs of her knees. I tried that, but the focus wasn't there with the Valium, and I soon became disconcertingly aware that I was much more in the position of the to-be-delivered baby than the expectant mother. I wondered if it would take an MRI caesarian to extricate me when the tests were done.
Betty said to close your eyes, and that worked for a little while. Unfortunately, your brain is just too clever for that, and "forgets" that you're supposed to keep your eyes closed. Looking is mildly unnerving. You feel like some deenergized subway train, waiting at a deserted station in a well-lit track tunnel. Two long, glowing tubes of light run overhead, and you can sense The River or the heavily-trafficked streets above. Betty also said that singing might help, but I feared retribution from the MRI techs, so I kept my mouth shut.
I didn't have the little window that Bonnie had mentioned. Just smooth, opaque plastic. The one very positive thing was that they kept quite a breeze blowing through there, and the moving air did help me not to feel as trapped. However, I did not like the part where I had an unbearable itch on my face, which was entirely unreachable in that gleaming straightjacket. I tried to admire it for its design, but found myself more engaged in devising unfortunate accidents to befall its unsuspecting, but entirely deserving designer.
Bonny and Ross said scary things about the closed tubes, and used horrified smileys to make their point. Fortunately, there were no skull-and-crossbone smileys for them to use, or smileys wth their eyes Xed out. Lying there immobilized, like a poster in its mailing tube, I sensed their visits to my furtive imagination eating at my brain as well, just like the agonizingly slow movement of the hallucinated tick crawling up my leg in the unscratchable nether reaches of the machine.
That, of course, was the key. It was all these things running through my mind, eating up time, keeping me busy, that wound up getting me through it. So in the end, you see, you all helped me get through my MRI.
How did you get through your MRI (closed-tube type, please)? All stories and suggestions appreciated.
I am highly claustrophobic, and had to go for an MRI. The MRI was for the carotid arteries in my chest and my aortic arch, so I was told it had to be done in a closed-tube machine. Panic city. Couldn't we just open up the chest again and look? It shocked me that I was such a wussy about this after having open heart surgery less than two months before.
People invoked a host of paralyzing similies to describe the tight quarters for me in excruciating psychological detail. And the quarters are tight. I don't know how they get big people in there. Do they have different tube sizes? Do they grease them down? Are there people with huge, plush-covered ramrods who come in from another room to push and stuff them inside the MRI's slick, science-fiction-plastic barrel?
I am not very large, yet I didn't really have room for my arms at my sides at all. When they activated the Army Surplus grocery store conveyor belt that wedges you into the belly of the unit (in a way not unreminiscent of O.J. Simpson attempting to shove his hands into the famous gloves), I had to hold my hands up so they wouldn't rub and catch on the nonmoving platform at my sides. The distance between my face and the ceiling above was close enough to allow me to play tic-tac-toe, had I the forethought to stick a miniature-golf-sized pencil stub in my mouth before entering.
I was given 10mg Valium to get me through it. I was pretty sure that there wasn't enough Valium in the continental U.S. to get me out the other side, but somehow it did help. I was supposed to take it exactly one hour before the test, but they were running a half-hour late, so some of the glow had faded by the time I was struggling to don the infamous backwards gown.
They put earphones on me, saying that would help. The music was poor, scratchy quality and very loud, but then I realized the real purpose was so they could give me instructions through the blasted things. I totally fell for that, and was completely sucked in. Along with the "Button" myth. I was told there would be a Button to push, if I really needed to get out. There was no Button. These techs relied on the unrelenting screaming method of notification.
The MRI machine, which I was warned would give a variety of grinding and hammering noises, was apparently set up so that those noises were masked with different toned buzzings, with a few setup clicks. So, the noise was only mildly annoying, like a friend prattling through the last five minutes of your favorite TV show.
Marguerite had sent me an excellent focal point technique, involving breathing in a triangular pattern (in, out, wait), and visualizing a triangle. She indicated it was borrowed from a class on delivery and labor, but that it had worked well for her during MRIs of her knees. I tried that, but the focus wasn't there with the Valium, and I soon became disconcertingly aware that I was much more in the position of the to-be-delivered baby than the expectant mother. I wondered if it would take an MRI caesarian to extricate me when the tests were done.
Betty said to close your eyes, and that worked for a little while. Unfortunately, your brain is just too clever for that, and "forgets" that you're supposed to keep your eyes closed. Looking is mildly unnerving. You feel like some deenergized subway train, waiting at a deserted station in a well-lit track tunnel. Two long, glowing tubes of light run overhead, and you can sense The River or the heavily-trafficked streets above. Betty also said that singing might help, but I feared retribution from the MRI techs, so I kept my mouth shut.
I didn't have the little window that Bonnie had mentioned. Just smooth, opaque plastic. The one very positive thing was that they kept quite a breeze blowing through there, and the moving air did help me not to feel as trapped. However, I did not like the part where I had an unbearable itch on my face, which was entirely unreachable in that gleaming straightjacket. I tried to admire it for its design, but found myself more engaged in devising unfortunate accidents to befall its unsuspecting, but entirely deserving designer.
Bonny and Ross said scary things about the closed tubes, and used horrified smileys to make their point. Fortunately, there were no skull-and-crossbone smileys for them to use, or smileys wth their eyes Xed out. Lying there immobilized, like a poster in its mailing tube, I sensed their visits to my furtive imagination eating at my brain as well, just like the agonizingly slow movement of the hallucinated tick crawling up my leg in the unscratchable nether reaches of the machine.
That, of course, was the key. It was all these things running through my mind, eating up time, keeping me busy, that wound up getting me through it. So in the end, you see, you all helped me get through my MRI.
How did you get through your MRI (closed-tube type, please)? All stories and suggestions appreciated.
