Normally, for an MRI, you zoom in head-first, headphones on to deaden the din that is clanking and thunking around you. However, for a scan of the prostate, you're whizzed in feet first. Oh, let's not forget the prep ...
"Into the cubicle, Mr Rod, please and take off your clothes and then put on these two attractive, but faded hospital gowns. The first you put on backwards - arms forward to then tie it at the back. Then the other like a dressing gown, to protect the innocent who might wander past the waiting room."
That outfit, plus a pair of leather boots with blue laces was quite the ensemble. Gloria tittered behind her computer screen (She always works while I'm being medical-ed).
After only a few minutes I was called through, slid onto the trolley thing that slides into the scanner and given a button to press in case of panic. The machine, once it starts sounds something like your washing machine when it's trying to spin and the load is all out of kilter. You expect it, like a washing machine in that state, to start walking across the floor, with you in its jaws, before marching down the corridor and out into the freezing breezes, chomping and clunking as it goes.
But no, it carries on with its noisy business and after about fifteen minutes it was all over. "Nice boots," remarked one of the radiographers. I wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or sarcasm, but I left it. Too deaf to hear properly the sound of gales of laughter as I left the suite. (By the way, the radiographer didn't look like the one in the photo here. That's stock photos for you!)
Back into the changing room and surrendered my new-found fashion, before changing back into day clothes, zipping up the boots and striding purposefully, like a man with not a health worry in the world, from the hospital.
Then I nipped back and got Gloria.
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