I’d like to say the worst bit of yesterday’s MRI was the noisy machine.
I’d like to say it was the scratching and uncomfortable line inserted awkwardly into a vein in my left arm.
Indeed, it would be nice to tell people that the worst part of the experience was the half-litre of gloop they made me drink before the scan. Or maybe having to hold my breath while my digestive system was scanned.
No.
The worst part was halfway through, when I was injected with yet another chemical and trundled back into the MRI coffin. Within moments bile rose in the back of my throat, my face flushed and I felt I was going to vomit.
In a metal coffin.
With the surface mere centimetres from my nose. I have to say I panicked slightly as I could easily visualise the vomit coming out of my mouth and nose as I tried to hold it back, dripping into my eyes, choking me in my nasty, metal sarcophagus.
Yes. I panicked.
And so I pushed the aptly-named panic button and the radiology team had me out of the metal Death trap in moments. They were so understanding and talked me down from my heightened arousal (wide-eyed panic), explained what was happening, and let me take my time before lying back down and returning to the magnetic noise pit.
It was pretty awful. And I say this as a man who had a combined colonoscopy / endoscopy session just a couple of months back. At least that time, I was pumped with a nice, relaxing dose of fentanyl to take the edge off. I even exchanged jokes about winning “cleanest colon in London” as the gastro consultant did his thing.
He didn’t laugh, now that I think about it.
Yesterday was the closest thing to torture I’ve ever experienced, and I won’t be rushing back. And here’s hoping it’s the last MRI I need for a very, very long time.
