Tuesday

I always need a wee bit of transitional solitude after Mike leaves, a time to shift gears and return to whatever I was doing before. My transition this morning was plenty solitary, breathing softly and following directions: don't swallow, don't cough, don't move, and don't go to sleep.

After filling out the usual stacks of paper--no, I don't have metal inside me, no diabetes, no high blood pressure, nothing--I entered the growling MRI machine and let it take pictures of my neck.

The results aren't in yet, but I'm pretty sure it's going to confirm what the x-rays showed--garden-variety osteoarthritis.  The man behind the glass treated me to his soft and forgettable Muzak for 45 minutes.  I began to itch; I couldn't scratch.  Otherwise, it was a perfect place to cocoon and consider my mortality.

Medical machines make me feel reflective, cold, lonesome, and detached.  When I finally leave, another woman is waiting her turn.  She's wearing the same blue gown I'm wearing and about to take off.  I carry my key to the locker and collect my things. The man who guides me through the labyrinthine office space asks me--what else?--to fill out a survey form about their services.  Were they friendly?  Efficient?  How was check in procedure?  How long did I have to wait to be seen?

Seen indeed.  If we met on the street, none of us patients and technicians would recognize each other.

Everyone who sells us any goods or services wants feedback, stars, ratings.  The surveyors of my bones wanted to be surveyed, fair enough trade I guess.