Kind Like Katey

Today I had a brain MRI.

And because apparently I now have enough MRI experience to rank them, I feel qualified to announce a winner.

Or loser.

Whichever one gets the title of Worst MRI Ever.

Breast MRI.

By a freaking landslide.

The brain MRI today was a cakewalk compared to the breast MRI I had when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer.

And I don’t think I’ve ever really told that story.

A breast MRI sounds innocent enough. You lie on a table. You go into a machine. It makes a bunch of obnoxious noises. They take pictures.

No big deal, right?

Wrong.

For a breast MRI, you lie face down with your boobs hanging through two holes in the table.

Yes. That’s really how this works.

You’re positioned just so, your ribs are pressed against this hard table, your arms are situated where they need them, and then you’re told the most important thing:

Do. Not. Move.

Then they slide you into the machine.

Face down.

Boobs dangling.

Ribs screaming.

And the machine starts banging and clanking around you.

I remember lying there thinking about how badly my ribs hurt. I wanted to move so badly.

But they had already warned me that if I moved, we might have to repeat part of the scan.

Absolutely fucking not.

I remember thinking, I am NOT doing this again. I will not move.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I went somewhere else.

I sat with Katey.

Not literally, obviously. But in my head, I imagined sitting with my sister and having coffee.

While that machine banged and clanked around me, I concentrated on her.

Coffee.

Conversation.

Katey.

Anything except where I actually was.

And somehow, I made it through the entire thing without moving.

Then I walked out to my car.

I called Stacy.

And I bawled.

Not a cute little tear-running-down-your-cheek cry either. I completely lost it.

I couldn’t even drive until I pulled myself back together.

Katey got me through the MRI.

Stacy got me through the parking lot.

To this day, I still say that breast MRI was one of the worst experiences of my entire cancer journey.

Which brings us back to today.

Today I climbed into another MRI machine, except this time they were taking pictures of my brain.

And I’ll admit, the setup sounds a little terrifying.

They put this cage-like thing around your head and lock your head into place so you can’t move. It basically felt like wearing a helmet.

And then into the tube I went.

But this time?

I closed my eyes.

And I just thought about life.

That’s it.

No ribs screaming at me. No boobs hanging through holes. No desperately trying to mentally escape where I was.

I just laid there with my eyes closed while the machine banged away and let my mind wander.

Life.

My family.

Everything that’s happened.

Everything that’s still ahead.

And after surviving the boob-dangling torture chamber?

Yep, the brain MRI was a cakewalk.

Of course, when you’ve had cancer, the machine itself isn’t really the scary part anymore.

It’s what they might find.

But today, I got some good news.

There are no signs of cancer in my brain.

I don’t think I will ever take a sentence like that for granted.

Monday, we keep looking.

Bone scan.

CT scan.

More machines. More waiting. More results.

That’s the strange thing about life after cancer treatment. Everyone sees you living your life again, but every once in a while, you’re back inside a machine wondering what they’re going to find.

So for today, I’m taking the win.

Brain MRI: clear.

Breast MRI: still undefeated as the absolute worst.

And if anyone ever tells me I need another breast MRI?

Well…

I don’t have breasts anymore.

So I guess I win that one too.