Superman

Standing self-consciously in the hallway outside the MRI room, I start to question my vow to wear fabulous shoes to my appointments. Although they do inject some glamour into the whole ordeal, my new leopard print pumps with the gold buckles and gold heels look slightly ridiculous with my blue knee-length hospital gown.

The technician opens the door. “Just leave the shoes over there,” he says, pointing to a space in front of a rolling cart laden with syringes and sterile pads. I do, and step gingerly over to the giant metal tube I am about to enter. Climbing up onto the table, I regret that I did not wear socks as I realize that for the fifteenth day in a row, I have not managed to get that pedicure I keep promising myself. As the phlebotomist fumbles while replacing the needle in my arm with the IV, I really start to question the shoe decision. Fortunately, they are a safe distance away from the spurting, which is quickly contained.

IV in place, the technician instructs me to lie on my stomach on the table, face turned to the side, arms out in front of me “like Superman.” Sure, if Superman’s breasts had to hang into two side-by-side plastic boxes. At least the blue gown does feel a bit like a cape, secure over my shoulders and draped across my back.

Slowly, the machine feeds me into the tube, feet first. My head is just inside the mouth – I can see out, but choose to keep my eyes shut. Safely on the other side of the closed door, the technician comes on over the loudspeaker to warn me to stay still and expect a loud noise.

When I talked to Michael about the MRI, he said the one he had for his deviated septum was no big deal: “It was actually sort of relaxing – I even got to have a little nap.” As mine begins, I want to laugh out loud, but fear this would violate the “stay still” instructions and I would have to do it over again.

A noise like the most horrendous post-modern electronic one-note symphony starts, speakers turned to 11, and doesn’t stop for 40 minutes. BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK
DUMDEDUMDEDUMDEDUMDEDUMWONKAWONKAWONKAWONKA
I distract myself by trying to identify the different patterns in a sort of Twilight Zone “Name That Tune,” and am grateful for the earplugs the technician gave me.

When it’s over, my ears are ringing and I can already see the bruise from the IV. But the next day, the news is good. The only visible tumor is the one we already knew about. There are no signs that the cancer has spread anywhere else, including the lymph nodes. Although we will not be certain about this until after my sentinel nodes are removed and tested, it is a very positive sign.

And as I enter the dressing room to change out of my gown, I am glad about the shoes. Like Superman in the phone booth, returning to the comfort and predictability of being Clark Kent, I am ready to slip back into my “normal life” for a few hours. I leave the building and head off to meet Sarah to check out the (quite interesting) Ecotopia exhibit at the International Center of Photography. As I walk through midtown, I catch sight of my shoes in the reflective glass of an office building -- my small act of sartorial defiance lightens my mood, and reminds me of who I really am.