An
Ennio Morricone-composed soundtrack would have been far more fitting an interlude
to my medical experience. When the doc said I’d need an MRI, that seemed a bit
more than having an ingrown hair removed. I met my radiologist in the swampy
holy city Benoni.
Waiting nervously for my slot, I read already-thumbed magazines and watched the off-the-shelf clock tick tack till my appointed time.
The nurse arrived motioning me to the MRI room. Emptying my pockets and unchecking the box that said ‘have you any metal plates in your head?’, i was led to stand alongside this gargantuan off-yellow barrel-like machine. Laying in the coffin-like capsule, my arms tucked in, a pair of ear phones hooked around my head, the missus covered my head in this hockey mask like grill. She then pushed ‘on’ and the machine clunked me inwards to the bowels of the ‘cave’. The nurse had told me they’d need to inject me with a dye in order that the machine could pick up colour hot spots. The thought of a robotic needle puncturing my neck plagued me and i awaited that science-fiction movie moment. It didn’t arrive after she gently took my hand and needled me to have the aforementioned dye race rapidly through my blood system.
For a machine as sophisticated as an MRI it sounded pretty agrarian. The John Deere sounding engine barrelled around my head. And then she hit play. And none other than Josh Groban came over the ear phones. My hands clawed into my stomach and my eyeballs rolled around my sockets like a ball on roulette table in absolute distaste. No-where to run, no-where to control the volume, i endured the Guantanamous Grobian torture.
After about 30 minutes I was all MRI’d but riddled with the songs and sounds of the curly Josh Groban.
The x-men had one looksee at the x-rays to find nothing but everything normal.
It’s lekker being regular. So go on and order Regular.
Waiting nervously for my slot, I read already-thumbed magazines and watched the off-the-shelf clock tick tack till my appointed time.
The nurse arrived motioning me to the MRI room. Emptying my pockets and unchecking the box that said ‘have you any metal plates in your head?’, i was led to stand alongside this gargantuan off-yellow barrel-like machine. Laying in the coffin-like capsule, my arms tucked in, a pair of ear phones hooked around my head, the missus covered my head in this hockey mask like grill. She then pushed ‘on’ and the machine clunked me inwards to the bowels of the ‘cave’. The nurse had told me they’d need to inject me with a dye in order that the machine could pick up colour hot spots. The thought of a robotic needle puncturing my neck plagued me and i awaited that science-fiction movie moment. It didn’t arrive after she gently took my hand and needled me to have the aforementioned dye race rapidly through my blood system.
For a machine as sophisticated as an MRI it sounded pretty agrarian. The John Deere sounding engine barrelled around my head. And then she hit play. And none other than Josh Groban came over the ear phones. My hands clawed into my stomach and my eyeballs rolled around my sockets like a ball on roulette table in absolute distaste. No-where to run, no-where to control the volume, i endured the Guantanamous Grobian torture.
After about 30 minutes I was all MRI’d but riddled with the songs and sounds of the curly Josh Groban.
The x-men had one looksee at the x-rays to find nothing but everything normal.
It’s lekker being regular. So go on and order Regular.
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