My magnetic personality

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.


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.

MacPsych @TheMacPsych