In
what I am trying very hard not to make a festive tradition, I spent
Saturday in an MRI scanner.
Close
to the Big Day as it may be, the 17th
of December was actually pretty good - three years ago I spent an
hour-and-a-half on Christmas Eve in one. And while, in comparison to
many other medical tests, I quite like an MRI, most people would
agree that there are limits to what they will do to get out of the
festive shopping.
But
the hospital had tried their best – tinsel around the weighing
scales and height chart for the pre-scan measurements – and while I
turned up prepared with my own CD, I couldn’t resist the option of
having the hospital’s choice of festive music piped into the
protective headphones.*
First
song on was East 17 Stay Another Day which for some reason made me
chuckle a lot, until I remembered that the first rule of MRIs is NOT
TO MOVE unless you want a stern, disembodied warning voice cutting
through the plaintive warblings of Walthamstow’s finest.
It
was only a short one this time - just 25 minutes on the gurney with a
cage over my face so I didn’t have too long to stay still. Or
ponder on the confusing and mildly inappropriate nature of ‘I saw
mommy kissing Santa Claus.’
The
aim was to get an up-to-date scan of my brain to see what damage is
already there before I begin my Tecfidera (which, incidentally, I
still don’t have as my MS nurse is still not well.)
The
results will form a baseline reference guide to check whether the new
drug is working by highlighting any patches of new activity which
shouldn’t be there if the drug is doing its stuff. Obviously if I
get a relapse which has clear physical impact, I will know about it,
but this will also help track and gauge those sneaky instance of
damage that indicate silent deterioration.
I’m
fascinated by how the varying grey and white patches are interpreted
on these scans. I’m also endlessly amazed by how magnets make
pictures which make medical meanings.
I
do ask my neuro to go through my scans to explain it all and I try to
nod knowledgeably while he patiently does so, but as with a lot of things I can
understand it for a while before it wafts off into the medisphere and
I have to ask him to go through the whole thing again the next time I
see him.
I
suspect I am not alone in this so I don’t feel too bad. And I can
always blame the big white and grey mush he sees on the screen before
him.
The
only thing I find mildly disappointing about the scan pictures is
that my head is not actually sectioned liked the Numskulls with
expanded areas for gin drinking, obscure song lyric retention and
knowledge of useless trivia.
If
I had an MRI scanner that’s what I’d programme it to do. And that
would be worth 90 lying still minutes of anyone’s time.
*These,
by the way, do not block out the repetitive clanking and banging of
the magnets, they just dull it a bit. I do know people who drift off
to sleep in the scanner – possibly understandable it’s warm, you
have to stay still – but I’ve never managed it myself. Perhaps a
skill to develop over the next few years as there will inevitably be
more close encounters with the tube.
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