By now, I know how to get to every imaging facility within a 50-mile radius, and this information hangs in my swagger through the parking lot into the hospital. That’s right, I peek over my sunglasses, I know where I’m going.
As I enter the hospital lobbies, I survey the population, like a tourist in my city. They’re not frequent fliers. I know this because of their lost, confused glances at every hallway entrance. Half of these people are probably just visiting someone else. Half of these people aren’t in for the absolute fucking fear ride of a surprise stay.
I coyly lift my sunglasses to my head and smile at the passing nurses in their fig scrubs. I calculate when they must have started their shift and if it’s about to end.
I am on a first-name basis with everyone in intake administration. One of the associates even shares my birthday, and I regularly update him with news on the Aries front. After the palm scanner has confirmed that it is truly me, we banter on. They know my “situation,” and I thank them when they agree to bill me for today’s visit. “You know where you’re going,” they say after attaching the wristband to my arm. “Yep,” I reply, “home sweet home!” I yell in sarcasm before walking down the hall towards Radiology.
Every imaging center’s waiting room has no cell service. It’s best to assume you won’t be on your phone, because the wifi is so dreadful it’s not even worth it. The receptionist sees my face and tells me that I’m all checked in, no back and forth on gathering information. I walk into the waiting room to find that, yes, again, I am the youngest person here. Unslinging my backpack, I remove the magazine and nestle into my chair. Around me, the other patients curse at their phones for not picking up service and occasionally peer back toward reception to see if a nurse is coming for them. When ten minutes go over their appointment time, the complaining starts.
“I got here fifteen minutes early!”
“I have another appointment this afternoon!”
“How long can it take for them to get this over with?’
I feel the tech coming and glance above my page to see her heading this direction. A nurse coming to a full waiting room makes everyone so primal. Everyone assumes it’s their time and stares eagerly like a dog begging for a bite. The tech smiles at me, no formalities anymore, we’re friends now. I gather my belongings and get up. I sense the person two chairs over getting annoyed that I have made this assumption. The nurse smiles at me, “Hiiiii, you ready?” She asks, and I take this small feeling like a groupie being led backstage with eagerness.
They already know that I’m not wearing any metal, and that I have a whole wardrobe dedicated to imaging. This particular tech and I have gabbed about my wardrobe choices, and I’m always trying to turn her onto the Aries padded sportsbra. My normally clinking hands are silent without their multiple rings to jingle. I put my backpack in the locker and throw on the hospital gown.
This is where it changes based on the test-
PET and bone density scans require immediate injection of contrast, then an hour to pass out in a dark “calming room” so the medicine can circulate. Some facilities are calmer than others, and the PET injection makes me fall asleep. The scan does not take place until a full hour has lapsed.
CT scans require drinking a horrible, chalky liquid, gulped at several intervals, before and after fasting.
MRI scans can be either or. Sometimes, they’ll inject the contrast midway, which I prefer because I don’t have to look.
Before long, I enter the throne room.
I remove my socks and climb up onto the table.
“The Tube Queen is here!” The tech says as she comes to my side. I don’t remember which facility I was knighted with that title, but it has stuck because I constantly traverse the state for imaging.
I hop up and slide my head into the groove. They lift my feet and place the leg rest. As they leave and return with a warm blanket, they give me the time estimate. Most scans take at least half an hour, but the major ones are typically an hour.
They wrap me up in a warm blanket and give me the “bell,” a rubber ball tied to a string, so they know if I need to get out. With a thumbs-up, they leave the room and shut the massive, ironclad door to keep the radiation out. They press the button, and my body slides back into the tunnel.
Don’t move.
Don’t itch.
This is what it’s all for, don’t fuck it up.
Just breathe.
I have many methods for staying sane in the tube. The most successful is replaying a whole episode or movie in my head, but these days, I have plenty of thoughts to keep me occupied.
The MRI machine at the Newton Medical Center (NMC) has a headpiece like a football helmet with a thin looking-glass that allows the patient to see out the window to the trees behind the hospital. I look through the glass and take my guesses.
Paper birch, some kind of sumac, Shagbark Hickory, ugh, of course, there’s autumn olive…
I continue to identify and guess at each plant, grateful that this is how I am able to pass the time.
If I am not at NMC, I will replay an episode of Bridgerton, or anything with fine details to pinpoint. These details speed up the time and keep my brain distracted until the end.
Occasionally, a panic will rise, and my intertwining hands will grow clammy. I will allow myself one big deep breath without caring how the machine registers this, and begin a series of box breathing exercises. Hold for 5 seconds, inhale for 5 seconds, hold for 5 seconds, and exhale for 5.
Sometimes it’s 4-4-4-4 or 6-6-6-6, but the end result is always the same as I regain my courage.
Just be here, I tell myself, just exist.
A voice comes over the loudspeaker, interrupting the endless loud clanging of the magnetic frequencies. “Two more minutes, girl, and you’re all done!” Two more minutes after an hour is more like 2 seconds. Before I know it, the tabletop slides out, and I am in the sterile light. They assist me from my throne and lead me back into the changing room.
And that’s it. My reign and rule summary will arrive 48-72 hours later and dictate the following location for this morbid sovereignty. When I tear into the results, the next age will begin. The divinity of Stage 4 concretes my commitment to this imperial duty for the rest of my life.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 