North Star Writers Group

The initials stand for magnetic resonance imaging, and for the first 65 years of my life I’d avoided meeting the large and noisy machine that helps doctors pinpoint medical conditions and resembles a cross between a nuclear submarine and an extra-large clothes dryer like those you find at coin-operated laundromats. That changed when I was diagnosed with a knee injury.

Though I’d never actually experienced an MRI, I’d heard plenty of stories about them. The night before my appointment, when I got together with a few friends, I asked them if they’d ever had an MRI.

“Piece of cake,” said one.

Another was less . . . um . . .positive.

“Yuck!” he said. “The worst thing about growing old is MRIs. Wrinkles and forgetfulness I can take. MRI’s are awful. Yuck!”

Buoyed by his words of encouragement, I limped into my appointment with all sorts of thoughts bouncing around in my head.

“Gooooood morning,” the cheerful technician chirped. After explaining the procedure to me and reminding me to lie as still as possible, she said, “You aren’t claustrophobic, are you?”

“Nope,” I replied, figuring my 25 years as an active volunteer firefighter had dispelled any fears I might have about enclosed places.

The next thing I knew I was lying flat on my back with the lower half of my body inside the machine, earphones on my head and an alarm button in my hand.

“What kind of music do you like?” the technician asked.

“Strauss waltzes,” I said, trying to be funny.

Ten seconds later I was being serenaded by 1950s and 1960s rock songs.

I quickly became bored. Time dragged. I decided to pass the time counting the holes in the ceiling tile directly above my head. That done — there were 82 holes, just in case you are wondering — my boredom resumed. Then I hit on the idea of measuring the length of each rock song by counting one-thousand one. . . one-thousand two and so on. Then, by keeping track of the number of songs that played, I could get a rough idea how much longer I’d be inside the machine. Clever, huh?

“Are you all right, Mr. Batz?” the technician asked, the voice in my earphones forcing me to interrupt my counting.

“Peachy,” I replied. “One-thousand eleven. . .one-thousand twelve . . .”

Twenty-one songs later it was over.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad experience. It didn’t hurt. And, best of all, I learned to appreciate the talents of Chuck Berry, The Supremes and Fats Domino all over again.

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