The MRI Incident

Let’s be clear: I didn’t ask the whole gang to come with me to get an MRI. Well, not directly. It’s just that the last time I mentioned a “doctor’s visit,” Mark got visibly excited, like I’d just told him we were going on a field trip. Before I knew it, everyone had RSVP’d to my appointment like it was a Broadway show.

It was supposed to be routine—some nagging lower back pain I’ve been ignoring for a decade or so. I didn’t know, however, that I was claustrophobic. But that’s jumping ahead. We hadn’t even gotten to the part where the gang turns a waiting room into the set of an amateur improv show.

MRI Clinic Waiting Room, 2:30 PM

Chaz: “Dude, this place is lit! I should take a selfie. Hospitals are trending.”
Me: “Chaz, this isn’t a hospital. It’s a radiology clinic. Also, why is that trending?”
Chaz: “I dunno, man. They just are.”

I glanced over at Tessa, who was eyeing the MRI machine room through the window with a look of absolute terror.

Tessa: “You do know that they put you in a tube, right? Like, a tiny tube? It’s basically a coffin for the living.”
Me: “Wow, great pep talk, Tessa. Should I be prepped for vampires too?”
Tessa: “I’m just saying! You could have an existential crisis. People do.”

Mark was over at the magazine stand, thumbing through a 2017 issue of Good Housekeeping, probably deciding if he could DIY an “all-natural pantry makeover.” Meanwhile, Sophie was checking her phone.

Sophie: “I looked up some breathing exercises for you. Apparently, you want to pretend you’re lying in a meadow, staring up at the sky. Relaxing imagery works.”
Me: “Soph, I live in New York. My relaxing imagery involves avoiding pigeons and finding a coffee cart without a line.”

Finally, the nurse called my name. This was it—time to face the machine. I gave the gang a thumbs-up and walked in.

The MRI Room: Where Nightmares Are Born

There it was. The MRI machine. It looked like a giant, sterile churro. The kind of churro that has opinions about your cholesterol and isn’t afraid to voice them.

Nurse: “Alright, Alex, just lie down here, and we’ll slide you right in. It’s about 20 minutes.”
Me: “Sure, 20 minutes. No problem.”

Turns out, problems. Problems everywhere. As soon as I started to slide into the machine, I felt it—the creeping realization that, yes, this was a tube. And no, I was not okay with it.

Me: “Uh… actually, could we just—”
The bed continued to slide in.

Me, now panic-stricken: “Wait, WAIT. STOP.”

The nurse hit the stop button, and I sat halfway in the MRI, feeling like a particularly nervous sandwich getting stuck halfway into a toaster.

Nurse: “Are you alright, Mr. Alex?”
Me: “Yep. Totally fine. Except for the part where I think I can’t breathe and the walls are closing in, and am I sweating, or is the machine sweating?!”
Nurse: “…I’m going to pull you out.”

Back in the Waiting Room

She pulled me out of the machine, and I stumbled back into the waiting room, drenched in a cold sweat.

Chaz: “Bro, you look like you ran a marathon. Sick.”
Tessa: “Didn’t I say this would happen? I literally said coffin.”
Sophie: “Did you try imagining the meadow?”
Me: “Yeah, and then I imagined getting trampled by cows in said meadow. It was a disaster.”

Mark, still holding Good Housekeeping, decided this was the moment for encouragement.

Mark: “Hey, at least you didn’t throw up, right? I mean, my cousin threw up in one of those things, and they had to cancel the whole day’s appointments. So, it could be worse!”
Me: “Thank you, Mark. I’m so glad to know I haven’t reached that level of humiliation yet.”

At this point, the nurse approached us, and I could feel the impending awkwardness.

Nurse: “We can try again if you’d like, but if you’re feeling claustrophobic, it might be better to reschedule with some medication.”
Tessa: “Medication sounds good. Lots of it.”
Chaz: “Or, like, do they have an MRI machine that’s just… bigger? Like one you walk through? You know, for people who are, like, afraid of tubes?”
Nurse: “You mean… a CT scanner?”
Chaz: “Exactly! A CT scanner. Science, man. It’s wild.”

With the gang debating MRI alternatives—none of which actually existed—it became clear that this was not happening today. The nurse kindly handed me a card with a number for rescheduling and what I can only assume was a line directly to a psychiatrist.

Tessa: “Look, if you want, I can come with you next time and do some guided meditation. Or, you know, hold your hand.”
Me: “Thanks, but I think I’ll just take a Xanax and call it a day.”
Sophie: “Honestly, probably for the best.”

We all piled out of the clinic, Mark clutching his Good Housekeeping like it was some kind of souvenir. Chaz was still talking about health goals, and Tessa was Googling “how to cure claustrophobia in less than a week.” I, meanwhile, was just happy to be back in the open air—well, as open as a New York City sidewalk between two construction sites can be.

Me (turning to the group): “Next time I say I have a doctor’s appointment, someone please remind me to leave all of you at home.”
Mark: “What? And miss all this fun?”
Tessa: “Define ‘fun.’”
Chaz: “This was awesome, bro. Let’s do a dentist next time. I hear they have those little TVs on the ceiling.”

Who would have thought that MRI does not stand for “Mostly Relaxing Inside.” It stands for “Maybe Reschedule Immediately.” Or maybe it just stands for “Me, Ridiculously Irrational.” Either way, I’ll be staying out of tiny tubes from now on.