monsoonmartin

Weather-friends,

First, I want to say regarding Sunday night into Monday that there is still the potential for snowfall and the slight chance it could accumulate, but I’m leaning heavily toward a storm track that will miss us altogether, bringing only snow and rain showers to our area during that time. I will post an update in this space if the situation changes dramatically over the weekend.

Second, I’d like to submit “Open MRI” to the pantheon of particularly cruel or egregious oxymorons, or contradictions in terms, of which some of the most famous and appropriate are “jumbo shrimp,” “open secret,” “peacekeeper missile,” and “military intelligence.”

Why? Because yesterday, I became the victim of a medical bait-and-switch of the cruelest sort. I was sent for an MRI by my doctor to take a look at my lower back, which as many of you know has been hobbling me for some weeks now. Knowing of my claustrophobic tendencies, not to mention my … generously apportioned physical stature, my doc sent me to Ephrata Open MRI. Open MRI, I thought. Sweet. In a regular MRI, in case you’ve never had the pleasure, the patient is loaded onto a slab and shoehorned into a massive structure like a round peg in a square hole—where the patient must stay, unmoving and unable to move any part of the body, for up to an hour. (I had an MRI way back in high school when I was getting severe migraines but was somehow not all that affected by it then.)

An Open MRI, I imagined, would be an absolute dream. There would be no shoving my immobilized self into a space no bigger than a morgue drawer. Surely in an Open MRI I would be free to move about gaily as I wished. I would be forced to sit (or perhaps lie) still for a short, pleasant enough period, during which time some sort of machine would take some sort of picture of my lower back. It would all be over in mercifully brief fashion, and I would experience none of the claustrophobia associated with the typical MRI experience.

My people, what followed instead at Ephrata Open MRI was 50 minutes of meta-claustrophobic torment. (For those of you who are new to the Monsoon weather list and/or weblog, it should be noted that my accounts of personal turmoil and inconvenience are not without their liberal pepperings of hyperbole and histrionics. I admit this now, only in a moment of weakness, and will never do so again.)

I was told to “gown up” and led into the MRI room by a technician who was, to her credit, extremely patient and understanding. I was laid on a table, facing feet first into a gargantuan, ringed structure that resembled a sort of brick oven (like at Carrabba’s in Lancaster, which is totally good) but instead of creating scrumptious northern Italian cuisine, it created only vise-like pressure and shrieking terror. (I told you: hyperbole.)

The technician (I forgot or blocked her name; let’s call her Hazel) then told me I had an array of music choices to accompany my ordeal. A few radio stations came in fine, she said, though two—94.5 (the evangelical Christian station) and a country music station—came in best. Need it be said here that I declined to listen to either station? She also said she had a few CDs to choose from: Enya, some philharmonic thing, and a Sting CD which she said was called All the Hits. Now, Enya takes me back to the days at Albright when my roommate would play the purportedly soothing—but actually numbingly bland—music of Enya and Yanni (I am dead serious) and make me want to jam hot knives into my earholes. I typically shun classical music as aggressively European and staid; it’s the white man’s music. And I used to be quite a Police fan, and Sting’s early solo work was quite good (the later period, when he was doing guest vox on vapid hip hop tunes, not so much). So yes, I said, let’s crank up the Sting!

Soon my torso was swathed in some sort of heavy wrap and I was then inserted, like a tongue depressor, into the gaping maw of the Open MRI machine, forcing the air out of me like I was a sad Tupperware container. I stared up at the ceiling of the “Open” MRI machine, which was about an inch and a half from my face and ended at about eye level (the top was open, so I could look up, to the side and out, and my feet were hanging out the other end, which mattered not at all, though I suspected contributed to their being able to use the meaningless term “open” in describing the MRI).

I began to wonder if I was going to make it through this—laying there uncomfortably for the better part of an hour, unable to take a full breath, the world closing in on me. Hazel observed that I was getting a little “wigged” and said gently, “This isn’t supposed to be stressful, you know?” to which I responded with a weak chuckle. Hazel handed me a small, rubber ball connected to a wire that looked like the end of a sphygmomanometer (blood pressure taker); I was told to squeeze it if I needed anything. This offered me little solace.

As the machine began its work, a few realities quickly became apparent: first, that my mild claustrophobia had evolved considerably; second, that the machine makes an irregular, intervallic death rattle that sounds like an excavator is operating on top of me, or some sort of undulating Lex Luthor death contraption; and third, that the Sting CD was one of the most wretched collections of aural ineptness ever put to record. The fact is that Sting had dramatically reworked many of his most well-known songs (including “Fragile,” “When We Dance,” and “Fields of Gold”) and performed them in front of an exclusive audience in Tuscany for an album that was actually called All This Time. His arrangements are whitebreadedly affected and ponderous, his delivery sloppy, the instrumentation languorous. The overall effect of listening to this was infuriating: snippets of the work sounded familiar, refrains seemed nearly recognizable, and yet it was all so foreign, so poorly executed…so icky. Sting even—unforgivably—included the (wreckage of the) song “Dienda,” with lyrics inexplicably added, on his CD. “Dienda,” composed by the late Kenny Kirkland and included on Branford Marsalis’ seminal Royal Garden Blues, is an evocative, gorgeous gem—probably my favorite song of all time.

The ensuing 40 minutes or so are a blur of near-panic, existential crisis, and strange, maniacal thoughts. A sampling:

• What in the hell is that picture supposed to be?
• One, two, three, four, Mary at the kitchen door…
• Breathe…breathe…whew…haa…whew…haa…
• I’m gonna lose my shit…I’m gonna lose my shit and eject myself out this bitch.
• Keep it together keep it together keep it together.
• Maybe I’ll try a little visualization…I can visualize my ass right the hell out of here…yeah, I’m not in this machine; I’m in a happy place. A…happy…place. Where’s my happy place? Hoff, are you there? OK. Yeah, a real happy place. Oh, this would be good: I’m back in Rhode Island, it’s last Christmas, and I’m walking with my lovely wife on the Cliff Walk. That was a happy time, and it’s a nice, open vista…yep, I’m on the Cliff Walk. No, I’m still here in Ephrata. I can’t visualize a god damned thing. Jeez, maybe I should take up yoga or something.

• I wonder how much time is left?
• What does MRI stand for? Oh, that’s right: Magnetic Resonance Imaging. I wish it had taken me longer to figure that out. M…R…I. Am, are, I? Oh, holy crap it’s an existential puzzle. Am, are, I? If I am not, how can I be? And if I be not, am not, whither me? What the hell am I saying?
• Why, oh why, did Sting sully his songs so?
• How much time could really be left? Oh damn, I wonder if it just seems like a half-hour has passed but in reality it’s only been three! Nah, that’s not possible…
• They make bombs that can be programmed to fall on a postage stamp but I have to lay my ass here for an hour and wait for this machine to do its work. Isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?
• “The Wire” soundtrack is really good…oh, I know…I’ll think about my favorite songs on it. That’ll get my mind off things…well, the dialogue snippets are great, especially the Snotboogie material and the “Omar comin’!” piece. The songs are a mixed bag… “Ayo” and “My Life Extra” from the B-more hip hop scene are strong, really hypnotic…and it’s nice to see Michael Franti on there…the Solomon Burke song is outstanding, and I like the “Gilded Splinters” song…I even like the Greek song…The Pogues and Tom Waits, not so much. OK, that’s it. What’d it take, two minutes?

• How much longer??

Finally I couldn’t resist any longer and squeezed my little rubber doober to summon Hazel. She came in: “Yes?”

“Oh, hi! Liiiiisten…I was just wondering how much more time?”

“You said hi…that’s cute! Most people don't bother saying hello. No, we haven’t got much more time. One more vertebra, so another nine minutes.”

[long exhale] “Whew. Thanks…I needed to hear that.”

[leaving] “You’re welcome…not much longer!”

“Oh…and could you turn off the music? It is so, so horrible.”

[sniggering] “Sure.”

After this, there’s not much to tell. The end of the test went off without a hitch, as I spent the last nine minutes counting. When it ended, I extricated myself from the machine and happily made my way out of the room. I had one final question for Hazel:

“Why would Sting ruin his music like that?”

“I know, right?”

Monsoon