The super-expensive, super-annoying, super-boring test that shall (perhaps) determine my fate

After watching me suffer through six months of knee pain, my doc finally decided it was time for me to get an MRI. Apparently, the condition that I have, patellofemoral syndrome, can advance to something called chondromalacia patellae, which means there is actual damage to the cartilage in my knees. An MRI would be able to show whether or not this is the case. There is a type of surgery to address chondromalacia, but unfortunately, it has a pretty low success rate.

Anyway, tonight I lost my MRI virginity at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. Yawn.

Prior to my appointment, a woman asked me numerous questions over the phone -- Did I have any piercings? Tattoos? Was I claustrophobic? -- and gave me strict instructions: Leave all valuables at home. Be here 30 minutes early. Don’t tell anyone who sent you. (OK, maybe not that last one, but the pre-MRI screening was enough to make one intrigued).

The actual MRI was extremely boring. They had me put on scrubs and a pair of brand-new socks (not sure why my own socks weren’t good enough). A nice girl led me to the room with the MRI machine, which looks very futuristic and clean and not at all menacing or ET-like. I had been preparing to be squeezed into a dark, tiny tube with millimeters of breathing room. This was more like a tunnel (although I suppose for very large patients, it could be considered a tube), and I was only in it up to my shoulders.

The MRI girl told me they were going to do each knee separately, so I would be lying there for at least an hour. They gave me a pillow, hooked me up with some headphones and put on 99.5 WYCD, at my request. In the beginning, it was not bad, maybe even relaxing. It felt like taking an extra long shavasana, in a comfier, roomier version of a tanning bed.

Except for the noise. Let’s see, how can I describe this?

DrrrrrrrrrrrDrrrrr EH EH EH EH EH EH Kukukukuk DEADEADEADEADEAD

The dentist’s drill, your alarm clock, the sensor that goes off if you walk out of the store with unpaid merchandise, someone hammering nails into a wall – all the most annoying sounds you can imagine, amplified, for an hour and a half. Every five minutes or so, there was a brief silence and I could hear my country music.

“Pour me somethin’ tall and strong, make it a hurricane, before I go ... DrrrrDrrr EEHHHHHH”

I’m not sure which sucked more, the cacophony of miserable sounds or having to remain completely still. The worst was when I got an itch, which quickly multiplied into 20 different itches all over my body, including on my knees. Torture. And I used to think it was tough keeping your nails under those heat lamps after a manicure.

In any case, now I have all these pretty pictures of my knees, none of which mean anything to me, but I shall find out more when I see the doctor tomorrow. I’ll keep ya posted.