A giant magnolia-coloured donut is facing me. I am unsettled.
Someone checks my name address and date of birth. You never know.
Am I am free of metal in my body and on my person? Yes.
‘Lay on the bed and put your head on the foam pad please.’
An IV line is inserted, and contrast liquid fed into my arm. That stings.
‘You may get a taste, or you may flush or feel you have wet yourself.
Don’t worry, you haven’t.’
‘Don’t worry about the noise the machine makes.’
I’m now worried.
‘This is called a coil. It takes the pictures. I’m putting it over your head.’
I’m given an escape route: a button to press to communicate.
‘Please stay still to help us get a clear picture.’
‘Hold your breath when I ask you to please. I’ll tell you when you can breathe again.’
I’m slid into the donut like a cigar in a tube. I’m a little claustrophobic.
Music plays. Its intention is distraction or to sooth. It doesn’t.
Like a hammer hitting an anvil there’s a strident clanging of the magnetron.
I’m talking myself through this… It won’t be long now, they know what they’re doing,
I can always press the button, I have to stay still.
Think of something else or better still, somewhere else.
I emerge from the cigar tube. The coil is removed. The IV line is taken out.
‘That’s it, all done.”
‘Thank you, I’m off!’