I wouldn't say I get claustrophobic easily. I really don't dig on small spaces, but I don't freak out in elevators or automobiles, for instance. It's really not until the space is so small that I can't move that I start to consider dismantling my container. Well, an MRI is roughly the size of a toilet-paper roll as far as I'm concerned, and laying still in it for 45 minutes was surely the equivalent of what William Wallace experienced at the end of Braveheart.
Thank God they didn't use an MRI. Whew!Srsly. Fuck each and every inch of that machine.
When I was fully inside, there was a little vent right in front of my face that blew cool air. It would have been nice, except it blew it directly into my left eye. Having ice cold air blowing into my eye while the rest of me cooked in what must have been a heated MRI laid the groundwork for a nice headache. I was sweating already as my nerves degenerate from civilized human to rabid, raging zombie silverback gorilla, and as the temperature climbed to somewhere around SterileºF, things only got worse. The headache was settling in nicely right around the time that my pain meds wore off, which meant my back started to stiffen up and eventually ache along with my head. At least with the earplugs in, I could hear my pulse pounding along with the throbbing in my head and back, and it kinda made for a nice song in my head (something along the lines of "Hammer-Smashed Face" by Cannibal Corpse).
Never again. Next time I have to have an MRI, the only thing that will keep the recommending doctor's limbs attached will be the prescription sedative he gives me for the special day.
Oh, and a six-pack of double wheat bock will return your nerves to normal. Eventually.
tweaker
FTS.
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