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I spent all day and most of the night waiting on an MRI. The nurses woke me up at 8 AM to get ready to go. I finally got called at 1 AM this morning. (That's 17 hours later.) I rode through the eerily quiet hallways back to the nuclear med area that is normally bustling with people, and noticed that someone had waxed the floor recently with a high gloss shine.
I believe that the MRI is one efficient diagnostic machine, but it's no pleasure cruise. I have undergone about four MRIs before, but I am not the kind of person who would just act as if the whole diagnostic process was the best thing for me. Claustrophobics, like me, couldn't wait for the diagnostics to be over. By the time I arrived at the room, they jammed the earplugs in, and slid the tube in.
Since the whole process would usually take at about thirty minutes, I got a chance to learn a few mind games. On my latest MRI session, I had the chance to wear headphones, and choose the music I would like to be played. The technician looked rather surprised when I chose heavy metal. He must have thought that somebody like me should have chosen Celia or Kapono instead. To be honest, I surprised myself, too, when I chose the said genre. Although deep inside I have a soft spot for Led Zeppelin, I don't think I'm the kind of person who would always prefer heavy metal over the other genres.
Now I did have a thought when they slid me in the tube. What do they do with buffet molesters when they need a diagnostic test? I go about 230 pounds or so, which doesn't make me small by any means, but I can tell you that if you are any bigger than say...two fitty...you'd need to take a shower in KY (err...petroleum jilly) to get in the machine. These thoughts were reinforced when I returned to the room later and tuned in to an Oprah weight loss special, where many of the whale walkers lost the equivalent of a whole other person.
Yesterday during the afternoon I got a call from my good friend Jeremiah.
He asked me if I would like to take a bite on a grande chimichanga plate from a San Jose joint. He also told me that if I couldn't take it just that easy, I could go for a $8.99-colon cleanse. I decided that I shouldn't resort to the street medicine for now, but honestly, it gave me a pretty good laugh.
Jeremiah also said this too: "You need Big Kahuna tools in your arsenal, too, because sometimes, you may not want to get your clothes a little dirty."
I agree. I'm in no moods for fights these days, but even if I could work up the muster, why break the sweat?
I believe that the MRI is one efficient diagnostic machine, but it's no pleasure cruise. I have undergone about four MRIs before, but I am not the kind of person who would just act as if the whole diagnostic process was the best thing for me. Claustrophobics, like me, couldn't wait for the diagnostics to be over. By the time I arrived at the room, they jammed the earplugs in, and slid the tube in.
Since the whole process would usually take at about thirty minutes, I got a chance to learn a few mind games. On my latest MRI session, I had the chance to wear headphones, and choose the music I would like to be played. The technician looked rather surprised when I chose heavy metal. He must have thought that somebody like me should have chosen Celia or Kapono instead. To be honest, I surprised myself, too, when I chose the said genre. Although deep inside I have a soft spot for Led Zeppelin, I don't think I'm the kind of person who would always prefer heavy metal over the other genres.
Now I did have a thought when they slid me in the tube. What do they do with buffet molesters when they need a diagnostic test? I go about 230 pounds or so, which doesn't make me small by any means, but I can tell you that if you are any bigger than say...two fitty...you'd need to take a shower in KY (err...petroleum jilly) to get in the machine. These thoughts were reinforced when I returned to the room later and tuned in to an Oprah weight loss special, where many of the whale walkers lost the equivalent of a whole other person.
Yesterday during the afternoon I got a call from my good friend Jeremiah.
He asked me if I would like to take a bite on a grande chimichanga plate from a San Jose joint. He also told me that if I couldn't take it just that easy, I could go for a $8.99-colon cleanse. I decided that I shouldn't resort to the street medicine for now, but honestly, it gave me a pretty good laugh.
Jeremiah also said this too: "You need Big Kahuna tools in your arsenal, too, because sometimes, you may not want to get your clothes a little dirty."
I agree. I'm in no moods for fights these days, but even if I could work up the muster, why break the sweat?
About the Author:
You don't need to be a self defense expert to defend yourself, instead buy pepper spray.
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