The MRI and Mr. Chicken

     When I limped into the MRI lab, I felt intimidated. The magnetic resonance imaging machine resembled a huge, white hottub. It filled most of the room. I was about to lie on a padded slab and be rolled beneath this X-ray elephant for half an hour.

    I simultaneously felt small, insignificant, yet absolutely relieved. The alternative to this open MRI behemoth was a closed, claustrophobia-inducing tube that I wouldn’t enter again for all the Guinness at St. James’s Gate in Dublin.

   I had no one to blame for this plight but myself. A Hollywood screenwriter would have titled this The MRI and Mr. Chicken. Who needs Don Knotts when you have Holleran?

   My saga began two weeks ago when I popped out of bed at 5 a.m. to walk and carry my golf clubs for 18 holes. By mid-morning, I was off to the cardiologist for a 10-minute stress test on the resistance treadmill. In the afternoon, I noticed my right knee was stiffening when I walked to the first tee for my nine-hole golf league.

   Never mind. Don’t be a wimp, I reasoned. The longer I played, the farther I walked, the worse it became, tweaking each time I teed up a drive and locking up a couple of times when I bent to retrieve my ball from the cups. The knee stiffened worse on the ride home and the next morning I could barely walk through the pain. Even a 69-year-old moron would realize it was time to consult a doctor. I imagined chasing grandchildren with a quad cane or walker. Worst of all, the morning basketball games at the Y and 18 holes at sunrise were on hold.

      My physician’s assistant determined physical therapy was the first option, but a further exam would be prudent to examine the inside of the knee for damage. That‘s when he mentioned those three little letters – MRI. My brain responded with WTF (for unhip guys like me the sanitized translation is What The Fudge).

    When I damaged a cervical disc nine years, I underwent my first MRI before surgery.

   “You’ll be fine,’’ advised my work partner Finn. “It’ll be over before you know it. Just lie back, close your eyes, listen to the music and say your rosary.’’

   OMG, she couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I wouldn’t wish the experience on Judas Iscariot. At the MRI lab, the attendants pinned me down with padding that made my neck uncomfortable. The music never came. Instead, the MRI banged loudly as it spun around me. I’d have settled for acid rock at this point. All the while, the pain intensified in my neck.

   So I lapsed into, as Eileen Holleran would say, “a lap around the beads.’’ The pain continued. Then I made the fatal mistake of opening my eyes. The wall of the tube was two inches from my nose. “Hail Mary, get me out of here!’’

    That’s when I figured out I was claustrophobic. I persevered for 25 minutes until they rolled me out and announced: “We have our required images. Would you do 25 minutes more for optional pictures?’’

   My reply came in all caps … N-O!

    Fast forward to last week when I scheduled the MRI on my knee. The clerk broke the news that the lab used only closed tubes, but revealed their competitor offered an open machine at a premium cost. This coward with intellectual liabilities grabbed the first available appointment.

    The open MRI was like taking a nap during a Stars War film festival. Pain free. My knee was wrapped in a special collar, I was rolled under the “hot tub,’’ and handed a panic button in case the noise was too intense.

   The attendant wasn’t kidding. This wasn’t on the scale of “Danger, Will Robinson’’ from “Lost in Space.’’ This machine belched a Dolby surround sound wave from 100 Galactic Republic attack craft. Imagine a blaring trumpet, screeching tires and bad techno music trapped in a phone booth. The cacophony is part of the process that uses powerful magnets and radio waves to examine ligaments, tendons and tissues.

     Back to the rosary. My brain lost track of the count but I meditated on all the intentions within my family, the in-laws and the Irish outlaws, even the ones that need the Father, Son, Holy Spirit and an intervention from all Twelve Apostles.

   After 25 minutes, I was free to go. I even got to keep the cheesy paper pants I wore during the exam. The only thing left was the waiting for the basketball court and golf courses and softball fields that seemed to call my name.

  The news arrived in the patient portal the next day. Findings: Sprain of the anterior cruciate ligament at the center of the knee joint along with a medial meniscus tear.

    My physician’s assistant read this report and referred me to an orthopedist, then dropped his little bombshell, which was worse than a four-putt. “Refrain from any strenuous activity until that appointment.’’ I’ve been sentenced to the Alcatraz of Inactivity for another week.

 I’ll still organize the teams for morning hoops. I’ll still retain the pseudo-Ryder Cup trophy from our sunrise golf matches. I’ve been benched from my spot in right field at old guys softball. My golf league is out-of-bounds too.

    I’ll be fine as long as I don’t need another MRI.

Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/