MRI

Modern medicine says hello, not with a smile or twinkling eyes, but with a bang loud enough to wrench my head ninety degrees to the left, as if Rowdy Roddy Piper had me in a headlock, while the referee slaps the mat, the count now at eight. But no, my head is hugged by two expensive plastic braces — penny-level expensive compared to this bedroom-sized multi-million dollar machine, that is making every kind of bang, clang, and soft-tissue image possible. Then there’s the high pitched shriek that I myself would issue, if any utterance was permitted, however, my imperative is to remain motionless as a bullfrog within reach of a hungry great blue heron, and so I just repeat my mantra and loosely clutch the blue squeezy that activates the escape protocol. Wedding ring and Maori jade amulet removed and I’d better ask about the titanium staples that have merged the sections of my lower colon for the last 35 years, because metal is metal, regardless of where it sleeps, and this machine hugs tight to metal as if it were the only lover in the Imaging Center. Loose, comfortable clothing they say, so it’s tee and running shorts — medicine is always cold in both affect and effect, so it’s a long-sleeved tee rather than a shorty. Surprisingly, the tech says after a while your back may grow hot because my back is what I’m here for, well, spine specifically. And I won’t bore your with terms like L4 subluxation and collapsing spinal canal, because I can still walk, even while my nerves fire hot shots through weakened legs to my toes, and it may be that pins and needle soles will be my new story for decade eight, even though a scalpel waits to write the opening paragraph.

Gary D. Grossman
Cultural Daily,
February 16, 2025