The Joy of the HMO

Watching "House" tonight, I was reminded of - obviously, my undying love for Hugh Laurie - and my MRI. Yes, back when I was a senior in college, I had a very unfortunate run-in with a particularly rude set of stairs late one Saturday night and ended up in the emergency room that next Sunday morning with a bum arm. (I will let you infer what you want from that timeline.) But, they didn't really think that there was anything wrong with me in the emergency room, so they sent me home with a prescription for very intense Motrin and a splint. Three weeks and two doctors later, when my arm still hurt, I was in Sibley Hospital for an MRI. I don't know whether or not anyone reading this has ever had an MRI, but it's a very strange experience. Personally, as someone who doesn't really like anything to be out of the ordinary, knowing that you have to go into a room where the magnets are so powerful they'll rip jewelry off your body is, shall we say, unnerving. And, of course, there's still all that normal, awful hospital stuff like wearing nothing but a paper sheath and having to ask permission to use the restroom. At least I was lucky enough to have an open MRI, but I still wasn't pleased with the experience. It isn't exactly easy for me to stay perfectly still - even when the only part of me that has to remain motionless is my lower left arm. Plus, my doctor assured me that my MRI would only last for thirty minutes - at the most. But, of course, as doctors and other medical technicians can be prone to do, he fibbed. How do I know he didn't tell the truth, you might ask. After all, there aren't any clocks in the MRI room, and you certainly can't wear your watch during the test. The trick is to listen to the radio. I guess they're trying to entertain you with soft/classic rock (and, normally soft rock will entertain me), but when you're trapped in a large beeping machine, you're willing to count the number of songs playing just to pass the time. And, once you multiply that by 3 (figuring that songs are about 3 minutes apiece), you start to figure out just how long you've been trapped there. Once I had counted 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I decided to ask the technician how much longer I would be in there. The technician isn't in the room because of all the dangerous electric waves running around and such, but he can speak to you through the intercom system. (Actually, that's how I came to call him "voice in the sky." After my 12 songs and 2 sets of commercials, I did say, "Voice in the sky - how much longer?" But, I don't recommend such phrasing - I don't think he liked that.) And, of course, I don't mean to imply that you will actually be able to understand the answers that come through the intercom when you've finished posing your question. That would be too much to ask. I felt like I was talking to one of the grown-ups on "Peanuts." So, once I got no answers and suffered through 4 more songs, I decided it was time to start singing along to the soft/classic rock, primarily out of boredom and discomfort. Lucky for me and my technician, the song I picked up on was "Shook Me All Night Long." I can't say for sure if it was the end of the test or my tone deaf rendition of AC/DC that made the technician wrap up (my strange way of addressing him might have been a factor too), but at least I got out of that room shortly after I started singing. Unfortunately though, if it was the singing that ticked him off, he certainly had the last laugh - a week later, the MRI showed that I had a broken hand and I spent six weeks in a cast.