MRI - Life in the Loud Lane

(Cross-posted to the Parotid Tumor Patients' Forum)

Those who've been following my adventures know that I'm looking at surgery number 6 for recurrent pleomorphic adenomas. Like cockroaches, mold, and acquaintances who "need a place to stay for a few days" after their families kick them out, some parotid tumors never quite go away. Think "Halloween," "Nightmare on Elm Street," and every other cheesy horror movie franchise ever invented.

This evening I went off to the hospital to have my first ever MRI. This comes right on the heels of my first ever FNA, so we're breaking a lot of diagnostic testing territory here. I went in without a worry in the world, convinced that my experiences with CT Scans and weeks of Radiotherapy had prepared me for a claustrophobic experience. Well, I was wrong. The MRI was one of the weirdest and most claustrophobic things I've ever experienced.

First, a note to the claustrophobes out there. There are many areas and hospitals which provide access to open MRIs. Nothing I'm writing here necessarily has to hold true for your own situation. I'm just saying that if you don't like closed-in spaces you should consider inquiring about alternatives to the traditional MRI.

Anyway, I showed up and was ushered to a back room where a very polite technician of some sort (I really don't understand who does what in MRIs, so they're all techs to me right now). He took some personal information and asked me whether I had any kidney problems. Then he told me that the initial series of scans would take about 20 minutes, that I would then be withdrawn from the tube and given a shot, and then would go back in for a few minutes of more scanning, presumably to obtain contrast studies.

I was asked if I had any metals in my body or earrings or pacemakers, etc. Satisfied that the answer was negative the tech told me I could wear the casual business clothes I had on and brought me down a long hallway to another room where two other technicians sat looking at computer screens. One of them got up and showed me into a room where sat the MRI machine. The room was cold and he asked someone to get me a blanket. Then I was asked to get on the "couch" (what is it with these medical types calling hard, sliding benches couches?), and place my head into a frame there. They slid a home-made pillow bolster under my knees.

Once I was on the couch, my head nestled in the cradle provided, the tech placed plugs in my ears and warned me that the machine was very loud. Then a clear, plastic frame was placed over my head and neck. It was open, so I was feeling pretty comfortable until a second clear, plastic mask was placed over my face. It was like being inside a diving helmet; even had lights on either side for illumination. I was lying there, trying to figure out how to keep my arms folded across my rather ample stomach, when I heard the last warning not to move and the couch slid silently into the tube.

Okay, now I know what a torpedo feels like. I needn't have worried about the arm problem. The narrow tube braced my elbows nicely. The ceiling was inches from the clear plastic of the solid mask. For a non-claustrophobic person I found the experience almost breath-takingly tight.

Then began the noise. The noise is truly loud. Imagine a firestation buzzer going off several times, followed by jackhammering, throbbing, pile-driving, and unmuffled engine noise. Loud, loud, loud. There's no particular rhyme or reason to it from the patient's perspective. You hear one noise, then the other, then another, then back to the original noise, then an escalating chorus. The noise was accompanied by a feeling of movement, the couch shaking slightly with the racket. Eventually the noise reached a crescendo which sounded of all things like a headboat I used to get on to go fishing in the early morning hours in the Chesapeake Bay. The only things missing were the chain smoking Vietnamese fishermen, beer swilling folks of all persuasions, and fishing rods. It was like standing at the stern of an old headboat, feeling the throbbing beat of the rough-running engines as they churn toward the Choptank River looking for better fishing grounds.

Periodically the noise would die for a few moments, but a disembodied voice warned me not to move each time. My shoes felt impossibly heavy and uncomfortable. I couldn't figure out whether I should keep my eyes open or shut. By the way, shutting them actually helps quite a bit. When they were open I would focus on two small, discolored patches above me and ponder whether they were stains, or burn marks, or something left by a panicked patient. I never did resolve the question.

After what seemed like a very long time the couch slid out and I was warned not to move as they selected an arm and gave me a shot. Then it was back into the torpedo tube for more ear-splitting merriment. I was told that part lasted about seven minutes.

Once the MRI was over I was asked to wait so they could produce a CD for me to bring to my doctor. This is a great idea, as it allows the patient to bring the CD to however many doctors one wants.

Overall, this was a pretty peculiar experience, but now I have a diagnostic result which can give my doctor a real perspective on the extent of my problem. It was probably worth it, but I wouldn't volunteer to do it often.