I pulled into the dingy parking garage and wound my way up to the fourth floor, the Frank Sinatra level, and settled into a parking spot. Dodging broken glass on the wet cement, I walked to the elevator, boarded the first to arrive, and went down two floors. The carpet hushed the sounds of my heels, and I paused to read the signage for directions.
Clutching my paperwork, I arrived at the empty waiting room and greeted the only person in the room. Received the clipboard, and followed his instructions. Page after page of personal information, all captured there in blue ball point pen. Handing him my identification and insurance card, I took a seat on the mauve and khaki upholstery and wondered why hospitals all hired the same out-of-touch decorator.
My feet swung in time with my heartbeat, which seemed more pronounced than usual. The assistant came to fetch me after a few short minutes, and his nervous small talk further added to the discomfort of the situation. Droning on and on about some small island in Florida that shared my last name, I politely nodded while chewing the inside of my cheek.
He led me through three electronic doors, opened by his badge, into a small locker room where I was to store my things. Handing me two soft, faded cotton gowns, he gave me my instructions, smiled feebly and left me alone. I quickly changed out of my clothes, put on the gowns so that one faced forward, and one faced backward, struggling to tie the latter around my back. Bending down, I put on the blue socks with the plastic grips on the bottom, and placed my things into the very slim locker, and slammed the door shut.
Sliding the stretchy band that held the key in place onto my right wrist, I padded silently into the second waiting room, directly off the locker area. I chose a seat in the middle of the abandoned room, and once again noted the overuse of mauve and vinyl. Distractedly, I thumbed through outdated magazines and read only the photo captions. Wincing, I got up to turn down the television that was mounted at an awkward angle above the corner table.
Sitting there, I had nothing to distract myself from the giant industrial clock that hung, crookedly, on the opposing wall. It was time for my appointment, yet I sat there alone. Half dressed and without any of my creature comforts. Why hadn't I kept my book out of the locker, I wondered to myself. Shaking my head, I sat there and waited.
Twenty-five minutes passed, and finally the door with the electronic lock and "authorized personnel only" placard opened. I sat upright, hoping that it was my turn and that this would all soon be over. A night janitor surveyed the room, nodded a tight-lipped smile and passed through the empty room without a word.
Fourteen minutes later, the door opened again. I'd long since read the three leftover periodicals, and now knew everything about last month's celebrity gossip and this month's society pages and this season's rheumatoid arthritis quarterly. Sleepily, I looked back at the clock. It was past nine o'clock in the evening on a Wednesday, and I'd much prefer to be at home, sitting alone, fully dressed without socks featuring underfoot grippers.
Finally, I give up and go back to the locker, retrieve the key from my plastic bracelet, and struggle to open the locker. With force, the door swings open and I reach in for my book. The door slams back, tightened by the underused springs in its hinge. The key must be a one-shot deal, I think to myself, and now I'm standing there holding my book when the radiology assistant opens the waiting room door, by the big clock and calls out for me.
Sheepishly, I admit that I'm in the locker room, and he rescues me, hands me another token and lets me put my book away. I mumble something about being bored, and he mumbles something, gently, about being sorry for the wait. He introduces himself, and we shake hands. We smile, embarrassed to be meeting as one of us stood in stocking feet and wearing two gowns, one facing each way, with knots all over in the flimsy ties.
I followed him to the "authorized personnel only" door, and into the cold, bland hallway. Padding silently on my handy grippers, I walk with him through three more doors, all accessed by his plastic badge. He's talking to me, explaining what I should expect as I go through this ordeal. He asks about my ponytail holder, to ascertain if it has any metal in it, and I nervously take it out and place it on the table with my key bracelet.
Shyly, I step toward the ominous machine that was lit from within. I notice the faint hum in the room, and can't help but see the electronic glow that the machines put off. He instructs me, with the help of his assistant, on how to lie down on the table, on my stomach, with my left arm up over my head. Gently, he locks my left hand and wrist into a casing and realizes how big it is for my arm. He stuffs two white washcloths into the casing to fill the empty space.
Placing a pillow under my fingers, he tapes my fingers down and then does the same to my protruding elbow. Warning me about not moving, he gives me a pillow to cushion my other arm, upon which I'm supposed to lean and place my head. He slides headphones onto my head, and I ask for help in moving my hair out of the way because I just know that that would have driven me crazy if left unfixed. His assistant asks me about my musical tastes. My mind is blank, or filled with nerves, and I can't even think of what I had for dinner, much less an intelligent and hip choice in tunes.
Assistant chooses Alternative Vibe from the internet radio station list, and turns on the music. It is so faint I can still hear them talking, even though they were many feet behind me. Someone placed a blanket on my legs, either for the chill or in a polite and gentlemanly gesture to cover the poor girl's legs. He adjusts the table because I'm so tall, and I bristle at how that almost sounded like an insult. Within a minute, I'm sliding forward, the top of the headphones are scraping the ceiling of the machine, and the world closes in around me.
I close my eyes. I had to. The light was strange, the space was small and my breaths were shallow and coming quickly. I tried to rest my face on the pillow they'd provided, but only too late I realize how awkwardly it was placed, and just make do. I know I can't move once they get started, so I cough, blink, swallow and flinch all at once.
The faceless voice tells me over the very hushed sounds of Coldplay that we're ready to begin. And then the sounds start. Softly, gently, rhythmically at first, and growing more and more obtrusive and horrifying. The rhythm is disrupted and the panic sets in. I count. I breathe. I pray. I keep my eyes closed, for the one time they'd flown open I regretted it instantly. The darkness of my own thoughts was better than feeling trapped inside that fiberglass growling dragon.
I startle every time the tempo or the sound changes, every time the momentum of the sounds is broken and interrupted by the new, more obstinate noise begins its cycle. I realize how much my wrist hurts in this plastic mold, and the terribly unnatural angle of the whole thing starts to make my whole body ache. My right arm, the one holding up my upper body and serving as a terrible resting place for my head, is smashed against something awful and is starting to throb. My entire body is throbbing, actually, and I can only focus on the pain. I start counting my heart beat because I can feel it pulsing through to my sore wrist.
I realize at this point that the machine is far too loud for any trickle of the Alternative Vibe to reach my ears, and give in to the experience. I feel near tears by the time Radiology Guy tells me we have 15 minutes to go, in his pseudo-cheerful voice. We're only halfway there. It felt like two weeks already.
When it is finally over, I can hardly wait to unleash my poor wrist from the torture chamber stuffed with washcloths and rub it gently and tenderly. I look into the eyes of the two strangers who help me to a seated position and tell them it was far worse than I'd expected. They both nodded, telling me that everyone says that. The MRI is not a day at the beach, that's for sure, one guy chuckled. The first technician places a hand on my shoulder and gives me the patient pep talk about how well I did. In a blur, I stand up, walk to the table and try to put my hair band back in. I wince while attempting that maneuver, and abandon that idea. Assistant guy walks me back to the locker room, which, after he left, was empty once again.
Dressing quickly, I stuff the gowns and socks into the soiled linen basket and make my way through the electronic doors back to the now empty registration desk. Down the elevator, through the carpeted halls and back through to the parking garage. I pay the machine and get back to my car.
It's only then that I finally give in to the tears, and let them slide down my face. I realize, at that very moment, how my decision to live so far away from my family has put me in this position. How being single has created this exact slice of time where I'm at the hospital, in the dark, after ten o'clock at night, feeling vulnerable and nervous and tired and in pain, alone.
Accelerating onto Lake Shore Drive, I dial my parents' phone number. Glancing at the clock, I hope that I won't wake them, since it is a Wednesday, and they are an hour ahead. My mom, breathless or tired, answers the phone. Her voice makes me crack. When I have to speak, my voice betrays my feelings and I feel relieved, comforted and embarrassed. I am an adult, and I'm crying for my mother, to my mother, about something that was not that big of a deal.
It isn't that I don't have perspective. My experience getting an MRI on a sore wrist is peanuts compared to what so many people endure. Nothing when it comes to the timeline of my life—not even a hatch mark.
However, for me, it was a moment that made me question my decisions. Second-guess my choices. And yet, simultaneously, reflect on my blessings. I am so grateful to still have my family to lean on, and most days, I'm proud to be a mature, self-sufficient, thriving young woman living alone in the big city.
But, for that moment, I felt very alone.
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