MRI ala Beck
May 2003
by Michael Walls

Had my first, and hopefully last, MRI the other day. I've had some ongoing lower back problems – ongoing for about 10 years – and my doctor finally suggested getting a Magnetic Resonance Image done to eliminate certain possible reasons for my pain. I have heard of other people's experience with MRIs, ranging from horrible to "nothing to it" (my father said he fell asleep during his).

I'm slightly claustrophobic, but declined the offer of valium. They told me the entire process would only take 15-20 minutes, which I decided I could handle. They said they could play a CD for me, so I ran out to my truck and pulled Beck's Odelay.

After a thorough prep discussion about how dangerous metal objects in the room could be, and after I convinced them that I didn't have a pacemaker, a steel plate in my head, or any metal shards in my body or eyes, I stripped down and put on the extremely complex hospital gown. (The opening goes in the back, by the way, and no matter what they tell you, there's no way your ass isn't hanging out.)

The MRI room is like a big, whitewashed meat locker, and the MRI machine is like something out of 2001 space odyssey. A big, humming, cylinder tube. They give me some ear plugs and some headphones, put me on the table and shove me in the tube. Then they hand me a panic button to push in the event of a problem.

Like I said, I'm a bit claustrophobic, so I try to relax and keep my eyes closed, but curiosity gets the best of me and I open my eyes for a second. I'm lying flat and the ceiling is about 4 inches above my face. I try to look down at my feet, but I can't because my forehead hits the ceiling before I can get my neck at the right angle. I just put my head back down and close my eyes.

The technician comes over the headphones and tells me to remain perfectly still and that the first "test" is about to start and will last about 3 minutes. They finally put my Beck CD in, and "Devils Haircut" is playing. It's muffled because of the ear plugs, but it's better then nothing.

The machine starts to tick and crackle. Like someone is tapping a hammer against a water heater, and the mice inside scurry around in panic. Finally, the machine kicks into gear – a tremendous hum, like an air conditioner when it's first turned on. Then a gradual rhythmic whining. The whole machine starts vibrating, and at first it's kinda of soothing. But then it changes rhythm, and punctuated by loud clangs. After what seems like more then three minutes, it's starting to freak me out. I can't hear Beck anymore, and I'm become very aware of the panic button in my hand. Suddenly, it stops, replaced by the ticking and crackling again. Beck is now rapping about "Hotwax".

I have an itch. On my nose. There seems to be a lull in the action, so I slowly drag my hand up to my face and scratch it. They yell at me. "PLEASE remain still, sir." I return my hand to its original position, on my stomach with my other hand. It's at this point, I feel my wedding band on my left hand. I start to have a bit of a panic attack, remembering the technician's speech about metal objects in the MRI room. I suddenly have visions of my ring burning a hole through my hand, or bursting into flames.

I attempt to say something about my ring, but the machine starts up again. This test is shorter – about a minute. But it's a different sound – a high pitched squeal that vibrates through my body. As soon as it stops, Beck lets out a blood-curdling scream at the start of "Lord Only Knows".

I shift my feet. "Don't move!" comes the voice in my headphones.

"I still have my ring on," I say, barely able to hear myself.

"What?" someone replies.

"My ring."

"Oh. That's okay. Please don't move."

Beck is twanging away on his slide guitar and singing in his alt country voice now.

"goin' back to Houston, do the hot dog dance...
goin' back to Houston, to get me some pants…"

The next test begins and Beck is gone. A three minute test. First, the ticking and crackling. Then the sudden air conditioner start. There's no rhythm to the noise. It's clanging and humming, then changes to high pitched whining and screeching. I image my body being radiated by these giant magnets.

I try to relax – to think of something else. Baseball. Music. Naked technicians. Nothing's working. I can't hear Beck, but try to imagine I can. I try to think about what song comes next. But my mind keeps drifting. I start to think about what it would be like to be buried alive. I start thinking that this is what being in a coffin is like. I start thinking about horrible things, like 9/11, or those people that got trapped in the Bay Bridge during that earthquake, or those miners in Pennsylvania that got trapped underground with the tunnels flooding.

The mind is a tricky thing. The harder I try not to think about my confinement, the more I think about it.

I'm aware of the sides of the tube and ceiling. I feel like it's getting warm in here. I start to fiddle with the panic button in my hands. I'm starting to think about hitting it and just asking for a break. Just a few minutes to stretch and clear my head of all these horrible thoughts. But what if I ruin the test and have to start all over again? I've been in here for almost 15 minutes, right? It's almost over. But what if they bullshitted me and it's really longer then 20 minutes? No – they wouldn't do that. I wonder how quick they could pull me out of here? I mean, even if I hit the panic button, it still might take them a few minutes to shut the machine down and come into the room and pull me out. I might freak out more if I hit the panic button and nothing happens right away.

The machine keeps churning and churning and churning. I feel like I'm in the rinse cycle. Suddenly, it stops. The humming and the vibrating are gone. The only thing left is the ringing in my ears. I sense somebody down by my feet, and suddenly I'm being pulled out.

Someone helps me get into a seated position and they take my headphones and ear plugs. "You okay?" they ask.

"Sure. Piece of cake." I reply.

I go back into the dressing room and put my clothes back on. I walk of the room, but nobody is waiting for me, so I leave. Jump in my truck and drive home.

When I get home, there's a message on the machine for me. "Mr. Walls. This is the Radiology lab. You left before we could give you the images. Oh...and we also have your Beck CD."

(Michael Walls is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)