Or, in this case, the MRI, fondly known in my house as the big scary knock-knock machine.
It’s been a nearly 10 months since my last head check. But this makes MRI No. 8 or so in recent memory.
I’m getting to be quite the pro, as the techs pointed out today.
No metal? Check.
No bra, even. Yeah, I went upstairs commando. (Yeah, I just made that term up, too.)
Be still? But of course.
Even so, when you’re told not to do something, like ‘don’t move,’ it’s like another force takes over and you have no control over certain body functions — a sneeze, an itch just out of reach, a twinge in the hand.
But I was still in and out, in about an hour.
Oh, but that in. What a doozy.
Some people say they can sleep through MRIs.
I’m not one of them, entirely.
I’m just grateful for an overactive imagination. I can go to my happy spot and play there for the duration of the clankity-clangs.
But maybe next time I’ll just invite Nick along to comfort me — the future is here, and it has a dual head.