Scanned

Three times now, over the last sixteen years or so, I've found myself in the unusual position of lying embedded, for forty-five minutes or so, in an MRI Scanner machine (I know that's not quite the right term, but it's how I think of them) whilst extraordinarily detailed, in a perverse way quite beautiful, images of my lower back were being generated. These have proved incredibly useful, along with other treatment, in allowing me the blessing of a lot more pain-free years than I would otherwise have had. (When anyone glibly dismisses scientific and technological advances it's worth bearing this sort of stuff in mind.)

But it's been interesting to look back over the three experiences themselves, which have involved different reactions and feelings at each stage. The first scan took place in June 1993. I was suffering from what the scan itself revealed to be a major slipped disk at the bottom of my spine. I think they term it L5S. Suffering is the right word, by the way. There was no position in which to gain relief from the pain and so, by the fourth day in hospital when the scan had become a necessity, on the grounds of What exactly was going on in there that was this bad? I abandoned myself to the experience with something like delight. Being enclosed in the sarcophagus of the MRI (there's something very Ancient Egyptian about it all) was extraordinarily comforting. It's very noisy in an on and off sort of way (they give you earplugs) and even the noise felt healing. I think I was also pretty drugged up at the time, due to the pain, so I suppose that added to the generally comforting nature of the experience. I think I remember feeling sorry when it was over. What I did find puzzling was the attendants continually telling me not to worry, not to panic, to press the button if I couldn't take it anymore, and the like. (At that time the machine transmitted their voices inside to you. On my most recent scan that didn't happen. Cheaper machine? Change of approach?)

Fast forward four years to May 1997, and now I'm walking to the same hospital for another scan. No terrible pain, but a persistent problem, and the doctor wants more insight, as it were. As I lie on the bench thing that they wheel you in on it never occurs to me that I might not actually enjoy what is about to happen. The usual instructions and reassuring voices. - Are you claustrophobic? - No, not at all. Then the sudden realisation as I find myself staring at a white wall, and nothing else, in an incredibly tight space, that, though I'm not claustrophobic, if I were allow myself to think of what it might be like to feel claustrophobic, this might not turn out to be very pleasant, especially since I'm going to be here for forty-five minutes. That's half a game! Enough time to lose a two goal lead and sink in ignominy. I didn't panic. I got on with it - basically there was nothing, of course to do, but I learnt a lot about myself in that small place.

And just a week or so ago, the experience was to be repeated. I didn't exactly lose sleep over the prospect, but I did wonder whether eleven or so years on I might find something newer, even more alarming, in the experience. I mentioned this to Noi just before going down. Her advice, simple, but effective: Just keep your eyes closed. It didn't stop me having to play a couple of mind games, but only a couple - and I think I re-discovered to some degree the joy of the helpless patient who's content to let the magic work itself.

But what I did notice to a greater degree this time around was the odd 'music' of the MRI. I don't think I could have stood more than say two hours of it. Sort of oddly churning, grating, repetitive without ever quite repeating. At one point it reminded me of seeing the early Pink Floyd in concert (I'm thinking around 1970) when they would occasionally indulge of electronic clatter just for the sake of showing off their then state-of-the-art sound system. Not so cool these days, I'm afraid.