By Katherine De Vere
© 2022, All Rights Reserved
“You’ll need an MRI.” She was a young female doctor, my regular physician being away, surprised, but trying not to be ageist, sexist or melodramatic, I demurred to the suggestion. As a victim (survivor?) of medical error, I paid lip-service to medicos, making up my own mind as to the “how and why” of any treatment. Actually, I was interested in the technology, an MRI takes hundreds of images, in slices, and you get to see a three-dimensional image of your brain. Now that’s worth something, isn’t it?
The Radiological Clinic wasn’t far from my home, in fact, I could see the tiled roof of my villa from the car park. In the late afternoon sun, the Clinic itself looked just like any modern building, an asphalt-shingled roof, bedecked with ugly solar panels, brick walls with a token patch of artificial green lawn out the front. However, there was one surviving tree, untouched by the developers, a miraculous, beautiful Jacaranda in glorious lilac bloom. Through my car window, I contemplated the solitary tree, maybe I should plant one in my garden? (Well, I’d been saying that for years, only I never found the time, and speaking of time, I really should call my mother…)
Alighting from my car, I wondered how many people returned to this same car park with fatal news. Or maybe these days they don’t tell you? “See your doctor for a diagnosis.” As I have said, I put little faith in the medical fraternity, maybe that made me feel indestructible?
The Clinic Nurse ran through a pre-scan checklist, and ever vigilant to foolery, I was pleased to note it. Induced, none-the-less into wearing the hospital gown that instantly demoted me to anonymous patient status, the nurse dispossessed me of my worldly possessions: My crucifix, my gold signet ring, my mobile phone, my money-clip and my Bentley spectacles custom-made to match my car. With the removal of my glasses, everything went into soft-focus, the hard edges of detail (and reality) pleasantly softened.
Lying down on the bed and donning the regulation headphones, I wasn’t fazed; it was a good opportunity to relax and think. The nurse clipped a head frame firmly over my head to hold it still, and placed the panic control in my hands. “If there are any issues, just press this alarm button, OK?”
“Thank you.” I replied.
The platform jerked and then slid me smoothly inside the machine, conveyor-belt style. Once entombed, I opened my eyes, the claustrophobic white panels were close enough to make me feel unnerved. I shut my eyes and kept them shut. “This is what it must feel like to be buried alive,” I thought. In spite of myself, I felt anxious.
The whirring of the machine began, sounding a bit like the revving of propellor. Followed by a variety of bangs, thumps and beeps, interspersed with pauses. The process took more time than I’d calculated, I’d be late for my afternoon violin class.
“This is the last one.” The low tones of the nurse came through my headphones. I was relieved. But the machine’s noise got more intense, shuddering, it seemed to me as if the ground was actually shaking. For a modern piece of equipment, it sure made one a hell of a racket! (Not like the quiet stealth of the X-ray or Cat scan.) This particular experience felt like I’d been abducted by aliens; the idea made me want to grin, but I held my face still.
Finally, silence! Great! I waited for the conveyor to reverse me back out, set me free and homeward. They sure were taking their time, maybe they were checking something? What was the delay?
Not wanting to be the wuss who pressed the panic button, I called out instead, ”hey?”
But got no answer. Slightly shamefully, I pressed the panic button and waited. Nothing happened. Weren’t they supposed to come running? I pressed it again, harder and longer. Nothing happened. My heart-rate was rising, I could feel the sweat start to trickle down my face. This was getting unpleasant, I opened my eyes, surprised to see that it had gotten dark, where were the lights?
Was this a joke? Trying to get up, I realized my body was free but my head was stuck in the stupid head frame. “Help!’ I yelped, “help!” By now, I’d worked the headphones off my ears, all I could hear was the sound of my own frenetic breathing.
Breath. Be calm. Be logical.
“Hey! Nurse!” I shouted louder. My voice echoed round the machine chamber, but only silence greeted me. Had there been an evacuation? A fire? I sniffed the air, but there was no smell of smoke.
More than keen to get the blasted frame off my face, I reached my hands along the plastic curve of the scanner’s interior, they fumbled around the edge of the head frame. Now just how had the Nurse put it on? I tried to recall, exploring the whole gizmo, mapping the hard industrial plastic one centimetre at a time. One thing became clear, the mask hadn’t been designed to come off inside the MRI machine, there wasn’t enough clearance. A ripple of panic went through my body.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured my mobile phone that I’d be asked to leave outside. Habitually, I kept my mobile phone in my pocket, so normally, I’d have been able to reach down and call for help. The thought didn’t make me feel any better.
Still, no one came. Encased as my head was, in its plastic coffin, I tried to wriggle up the bed. No joy. Sweating, I managed to work my fingers under the frame’s fasteners, tugging and tearing at them with all my strength, still they wouldn’t give. I cursed the manufacturer, the hospital staff – them all! Mentally, I toyed with what case precedents I could use as grounds to sue. What dolts! There were other choice terms I used, that remain unrepeatable.
Angry now, I pushed hard up towards the back of the machine, away from the way I’d gotten in, using my shoulders as leverage, the helmet shifted I heard a snap and then felt a release – even at the same time a stabbing pain to my neck. Desperately, wriggling, backwards, wormlike, I found myself falling, until I hit the floor beneath me. Oh, the relief!
For some moments, I sat panting on the floor where I’d fallen. It was weirdly quiet, and was that wind? A breeze ruffled my tunic, I felt chill – how could that be? Probably shock, I rationalized. Putting my hands to my head, I realized much of the head frame was still attached, like some weird space helmet, how ridiculous I must look, I thought – noting my shoes and socks still on my feet. Warm blood trickled down my neck, where the plastic had torn my skin, I pressed the edge of my gown to the wound.
Looking round, I was truly astonished to see the outline of the tree in front of me, and even more surprised to see the sky above. Turning my head to look behind me for walls, or even the clinic building, there stood only the gleaming, eerie whiteness of the MRI machine, bolted to the ground, like a time machine, like a space ship, like a Tardis.
The dawn light was streaking across the sky, of such a vivid crimson, that even if painted, would appear too brilliant, too other-wordily to be real. What had happened? Where was the clinic? The carpark? Where were the cars? My car? As I stared, I realized that I could see no cars, no buildings, no people at all, anywhere. Everything, and I mean everything, had gone.
All that was left was the tree and me.
Loudly, the wind rustled the leaves of the Jacaranda. Bleeding, tottering a few steps forward, I leaned against the solid trunk. For some reason, it was comforting.
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