The day started out like any other, up at five, at work by six thirty, scheduled MRI at eight o’clock. WHAT? Yes, I had an MRI, the first one in my life. I thought I would be able to go through my years and die peacefully without ever having one…..but no. My left knee is on the fritz and nothing is helping. Not physical therapy, not a steroid injection, not massive doses of ibuprofen or Tylenol. Nothing is helping this knee of mine. Pain, throbbing, stabbing, aching, stiffness, instability…oh yes, I’ve got them all.
So, after spending three months trying different remedies, it was now time for the MRI. That big magnet that magically, at least to me, shows the body part cut into layers laterally, vertically, horizontally, basically every which way.
Having worked in the radiology world for a couple of decades I know the basics of an MRI. I know what the tube looks like, I know how long the scan takes, I know that there is a knocking noise. I also know not to wear any metal inside the room as that big ass magnet will suck it right off or out of you. (I don’t know how the multiply pierced public of Portland carries this off.) (There’s even some talk of the old dyes used in tattoos having metal in them. Can you imaging being the tattooed man and climbing in the MRI tube only to find your body starting to burn? Yikes. Maybe when you were twenty-two and getting the all over body tattoos you should have thought of turning fifty and having your body fall apart and needing an MRI. But no, you went for the mural on skin look. Now, where did that get you?)
Anyway, back to me. What I didn’t have any knowledge of were the various sounds that accompany the scanning. There is knocking and whirring; spinning and crunching; buzzing and humming along with an occasional squeak. It’s all a cacophony of sounds in a very mechanical orchestra. These are repeated over the course of the session in different sequences and order. Just when you get used to one sound it will quickly change over to a variation of a sound you heard 10 minutes ago. My scan took thirty minutes and in that time I was accompanied by many different parts of the MRI sonata. All of this with a radio station playing in the background. Needless to say I was fascinated and that thirty minutes flew by.
But even fifteen minutes without moving my knee means I have to hobble to walk anywhere. After thirty I ended up looking like an old, old woman with a stiff leg and a pronounced limp.
Upstairs I went to my orthopedist only to find out I have a meniscus tear. Yep, that little pad that sits between your thigh bone and your leg bone has a tear in it and is causing pain, suffering, limping, groaning and all around being a big baby. So we decided that surgery was just the thing to alleviate the pain. He’s basically going to go in and shave?, cut?, whittle? that tear away and I’ll be as good as new. Eventually. I have a ways to go before I hit new. Physical therapy, weight loss, healthy eating – all to be done to help the knee heal. New may still seem far away. Perhaps skin sculpting, face lifting, tummy tucking and sun spot bleaching will do it. Yes, I can just see that new body off in the horizon.
Now you and I know that will never happen. Besides, I’ve learned to love me as my sixty-three year old self. I’m still a cute, funny redhead just older and wiser. I dye my hair because, hello, we tend to turn pink as we age. And while that is all the rage, it’s not the kind of gentle, soft pink one would want. I try to keep up on my skin care routine and am doing a good job of it. But, and this is a big but, where are my eyebrows going? Have they decided to escape hair by hair in the hopes I won’t notice until they are all gone and safe in their hiddy hole? I am now penciling them in and that usually seems to turn out different every time. I look surprised one day, a little down another day, quizzical the day after that. I really need to get a grip on the eyebrow pencil and my magnifying mirror.
The age spots on my hands concern me so I’m buying special lotion for them. Have you ever noticed that a woman can look decades younger through great skin care and make up, or maybe a little surgery. But, look at her hands and there you have it, her actual age. Ladies, don’t forget your hands.
Looks like I started out with my medical condition and segued into my cosmetic condition. And that it how my mind really works.
So, enough about me. How is your week going?
magicalmess 