This story was published in Medium’s Entertain, Enlighten, Empower.
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Dawdled.
However, Monet nails it, doesn’t he? We worry about crossing our bridges of concerns, but we can never see them clearly — the fog of human unknowing — until we’re on them.
Or, in my case yesterday, trapped inside this MRI machine.
As some of you know, I fell about a month ago. I’ve written about my excellent medical care in San Miguel, Mexico. Did I black out and fall or fall and knock myself out? Both my Mexican and US doctors asked this question, and now my American GP is putting me through a blood, heart, and head work-up. The MRI was to peek inside my noggen, looking for anything suspicious. We’ll discuss the results of all these tests in a few weeks.
Last week, when my doctor mentioned the head scan, I asked if that meant a tube. He said yes and preferred the enclosed MRI to the more open Cat Scan because it would give more detailed images. “I’m claustrophobic,” I replied. “I’ll prescribe an anti-anxiety drug. The MRI is the best option.” I got the message. And started worrying about coffin-like enclosed spaces and, of course, tumors, a word he used but skirted over.
The good news is there doesn’t seem to be any “unusual mass.” Reading the summary from my doctor, I noticed there doesn’t seem to be anything other than “thinning and atrophy,” which is pretty standard for a 75-year-old organ.
Maybe it was the Lorazepam or the experienced handling of Debra, my MRI technician angel, who included a facial cloth to cover my eyes and a blanket. But the 40 minutes I spent inside that machine were different than anticipated.
In the days before, I imagined feeling confined and panicking. What if I can’t get the image of being in a coffin out of my head? Would I start screaming?
MRIs are loud, so Debra inserted earplugs and small pillow bookends to keep my head from moving. The knocking noise was initially distracting but then comforting. Every magnet pause suggested progress. About halfway through, I started observing myself and my reaction.
Three unexpected thoughts appeared. One, I looked panic square in the eye and dared it to come closer. I’m Rocky egging Appollo Creed on in the last round. He knows he can go the distance. I’m on the bridge, almost enjoying the view from here.
The second, more astounding, was that I could get used to letting go of control. Grasping control of whatever is the core of claustrophobia and much of what’s wrong in our world. For example, if only I could show you, dear reader, my vulnerability, you would love my story.
That’s the essence of “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” All our bridges are phantoms. We use our language to fool ourselves.
Until we get on the bridge, we don’t know. And when we pay the toll, we usually muddle through!
The third thought? You’ve probably figured it out. The coffin image I feared so much? It came back and sat gently on my chest. It wasn’t as scary as I thought.
However, just to be safe, I’ll be cremated.
And cross that bridge when I come to it.
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