My MRI Experience

I had an MRI this morning on my shoulder, and I thought I'd give a completely objective description of my experience. I recognize that it's not the worst procedure to have done--I imagine that a colonoscopy would be even more unpleasant--but I can't say that I'm going to rush to the front of the line to repeat this experience anytime soon.

A brief history for those not in the know: my shoulder started hurting in late June. I figured I just slept on it wrong, and it would go away in a couple days. Instead, it's been getting worse and worse for two months now. Any time I move my arm, my shoulder crunches and pops and grinds and shifts. I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to happen.

Oral steroids worked great for a week while I took them, but less than 48 hours after I took my last pill, the pain was back. Then it was off to a sports medicine specialist, who injected my shoulder with cortisone. The pain went away a day or two later, but the crunching, popping, grinding, and shifting continued. It just didn't hurt. Two weeks after the cortisone injection, though, the pain came back with a vengeance. So with the specialist guessing a tear in my labrum or rotator cuff or both, an MRI was the next step.

Now, I'll preface my description of my MRI this morning with the clarification that I am not accusing anyone of malpractice or anything. Throughout my experience, my brain knew that it was all necessary. I never felt like anyone was screwing anything up. I'm not a doctor, but the path that the medical professionals have taken with my shoulder has made perfect sense to me the entire time. The staff at the hospital this morning were all absolutely terrific--very informative, speaking terms I could understand, welcoming questions, showing empathy, and being happy to assist me with even the smallest things, like tying my gown, since I have difficulty raising my arm above mid-chest level. So if anyone from my local hospital is somehow reading this, you guys did a great job, and I sincerely thank you.

Now on to the experience.

My appointment was at 7:00am, but they wanted me there at 6:30am. So I dragged myself out of bed at some ungodly hour this morning and got myself to the hospital on time. I answered their screening questions ("are you claustrophobic?", "do you have any metal in your body?", etc.) and then waited to be called. While I waited, I recalled the MRI I had on this very same shoulder several years ago. It was an open MRI, so it was a rather pleasant experience. I pretty much just slept for about an hour. My current doctor told me that the MRI this morning would take about 45 minutes, so I was looking forward to a little nap, since I had gotten up so early, and then heading in to work just a few minutes after my 8:00am start time.

They called me back and wanted me to change into a gown. I mildly protested, pointing out that I made sure not to wear any clothes with metal anywhere on it. But they insisted on the gown. They were going to have to have access to my shoulder for when they put the contrasting dye in there.

(Sigh). Fine. At least I got to keep my pants on.

After I got a little help tying the strings on the gown, I got my hospital-issued robe on and made my way to the MRI room, where I was met by a very nice technician. I think his name was Ned. Ned cheerfully explained what was going to happen and then got me all strapped in. This wasn't an open MRI, though, like the last time. This one was like being fed into a torpedo tube. I'm not the smallest guy on Earth, but I'm not the biggest guy, either, and I had my good shoulder kind of hiked up one side of the tube, and the edge of my bad shoulder was touching the other side of the tube. So it was a tight squeeze. They had a little light in there, and a fan was blowing a cool breeze on me the whole time, so I was good, despite the cramped quarters.

I dozed off for awhile until Ned told me it was time to get out. The next step was to get the contrasting dye in my shoulder, and then return for another MRI. My doctor had told me about the dye, but I guess I hadn't really thoroughly considered how they were going to get that dye in there.

And I don't like needles.

So I got to the room where the dye procedure was to happen, and a pretty nurse named Samra was there. (Oh, go run and tell the Mrs. I don't care. Every guy likes to converse with a pretty girl.) So in all of her prettiness, she explained what was going to happen. They were going to inject Novocaine into my shoulder to numb me up, and then the doctor, using a live x-ray feed, was going to inject the dye, watching the live x-ray to make sure he got the dye into the right places. Then they were going to move my arm around to get the dye mixed in there real well. As she was talking, my brain gradually moved from enjoying Samra's pretty smile to realizing what she was saying. Suddenly, I didn't like Samra very much. Sure, I was shooting the messenger, but did I mention that I don't like needles?

Samra's shift was over, so she was leaving, but she assured me that her replacement would take good care of me. And in walked April (also pretty, just in case you were wondering). She informed me that there would be a bit of a delay because there was an emergency that the doctor had to attend to, but he'd be back shortly. So I got to lie there on the table, stare at the ceiling, and ponder what was about to happen to me for about 15 minutes.

I was just about to lose my ability to resist the urge to run out of there while no one was looking when the doctor arrived. I don't remember his name, but he seemed very nice. He just wasn't as pretty as Samra or April (see how guys think?), and at this point, I wasn't entirely sure this whole process was going to be worth it, so I was sizing him up to determine if I could knock him down, and if he would be fast enough to catch me before I got to my car. I could probably put up with a little shoulder pain for the rest of my life, right?

But it was too late to back out at that point. The doctor sterilized my shoulder and his hands, got his gloves on, and then explained that he was going to give me the Novocaine now. It would feel like a bee sting, he said. Okay, I can handle that. I've been stung by bees before. No biggie.

What he failed to mention was that it was going to be like being stung by an entire nest of angry hornets, not just a singular bee sting. I'm not sure how many times he shot me with Novocaine, but I'm estimating somewhere around two or three thousand times. Give or take.

Then he waited a few minutes for the "Novocaine" to take effect. I use quotation marks because I'm pretty certain that someone accidentally filled his little jar of Novocaine with tap water.

(Mom, you may want to avert your eyes at this point.)

I wasn't looking at my shoulder while he did all of this because if I see a needle sticking in me, it's pretty much instantly lights out. (Although in retrospect, that might have been a good idea.) All I heard was the doctor instructing Pretty April to give him the 746-gauge needle. I think that's what he said, anyway. I don't know much about needle sizes, but I think the larger the gauge, the bigger the needle. And Pretty April gave it to him. That bitch. Now she was on my shit list, right next to Samra.

I'd equate what happened next to having someone use an auger on the front of my shoulder. Earlier, while Pretty Samra was trying to seduce me, only later to betray me, she asked me where my shoulder hurt the most. I thought she was just concerned for my well-being. Apparently, though, she conveyed that information to the doctor, and that's where he decided to plant that PVC pipe they claimed was a syringe.

And let me tell you, the Novocaine didn't do much for me.

I tried to keep my emotions to myself to save face in front of Pretty April, and I was doing okay until the 982-gauge needle hit bone. I think it was bone. Bone or cartilage. Or something hard in there. Whatever it was, I just about came out of my skin. I kept waiting for the Novocaine to kick in, but it failed me badly.

Then the doctor had Pretty April wheel in a 55-gallon drum of dye, and I swear that doctor injected every last drop of it into my shoulder...one little squeeze at a time. I was mildly surprised at this point that the dye wasn't mixed with hydrochloric acid, or some other substance designed to increase the level of agony I was in. I really wasn't liking Pretty April much at all at this point, since she was an accessory to this torture. With the 1243-gauge needle still firmly in place four inches into my shoulder, the doctor used a garden hose to feed the 55-gallon barrel of dye into my shoulder, frequently checking the live x-ray screen to make sure the dye was going where it was supposed to. About 17 hours later, he let me know that I was done.

That was about the time that the Novocaine started working.

It reminded me of those Wile E. Coyote cartoons, where he falls off a cliff, and as he hurtles toward the ground, he's desperately yanking on the rip cord of a faulty parachute that never opens. Then he hits the ground in a cloud of dust...and his parachute opens.

When I was finally fairly certain that the 2988-gauge needle was out of my shoulder, I tried to sit up, but Pretty April was right there to put her hand on my chest and keep me prone. I told her, "Nice try, Pretty April, trying to seduce me some more by being pretty and now caressing my chest, but I'm on to your game now, you little sadist!"

Or maybe that's just what I was thinking. I'm not really sure. I was still a little woozy from the 19,687-gauge needle being removed in the same fashion that a knight retrieves his sword after impaling someone with it. If I remember correctly, blood was spraying everywhere from my shoulder after the needle was removed, but Pretty April got me patched up with a Band-Aid.

It wasn't even a cool Band-Aid like Batman or SpongeBob SquarePants or anything like that. It was just a plain old boring Band-Aid. Pretty April's evilness knows no bounds!

Then the doctor put some professional wrestling moves on me, forcing my shoulder into positions it's never been in before: yanking, jerking, rotating, bending. I desperately tried to tap out several times, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He claimed this was helping the dye get into every little crack and crevice inside my shoulder. Sure it was, Hulk Hogan.

Finally, the Battery on a Probation Officer was over. As Pretty April helped me sit up and gave me a moment to stop the room from spinning, I noticed the enormous rock on her ring finger and thought to myself, "That poor bastard, Mr. Pretty April. I can only imagine what she puts him through."

Then I had to stagger back to the MRI room where Ned was waiting for me. Apparently, he had been in the break room with Pretty Samra, Pretty April, and Dr. Kevorkian when they all hatched their scheme to inflict as much pain as possible in my shoulder, all in the name of medicine. Because as cool as Ned had been the first time he MRI'd me, he decided this time that it would be hilarious to make me put my bad arm up above my head before he stuffed me back in the torpedo tube.

Six and a half minutes of agony later, he pulled me back out of there, let me put my arm down, and then shoved me back in there for another 15 minutes or so to MRI me some more.

Finally it was over. I stumbled back to the dressing room, eventually got my gown untied and off and my shirt back on (not easy tasks when your shoulder is on fire), and made it out to the car, where it hurt just to dig my keys out of my pocket and lift up the remote to unlock the van. I felt a little light-headed, so I sat there for a few minutes, collecting myself before I headed out into traffic, and I noticed that it was 9:30am. I had been there for three hours.

I think I'm going to have a word with my doctor about how to better prepare his patients for the MRI experience, including a warning not to fall for those damn sirens, Pretty Samra and Pretty April.

They're evil.