put me in a coffin

Up to the local hospital this evening for my MRI. That's right, these days they do MRIs and scans at all times of the day and night in an attempt to get the waiting list down, and it seems to be working; it was only requested a couple of weeks ago.

I make my way through empty hospital corridors and am led, once out of my clothes and into my paper gown, into the scanning room. Last time I had an MRI it was for a skiing injury to my knee, and then I only had to put my lower body inside the scanner. But for my shoulder I must be inserted fully into the machine, and as the top slides over my face it occurs that this is the nearest rehearsal most people ever get to being in a coffin. But that that would be much quieter than this. Soon manic rhythms hammer out, as if Keith Moon were injected with metamphetamine and let loose on a massive drumkit, while other stranger sounds pervade, like some badly played theramin. I try to make songs from the manic beats; one indeed sounds a little like the Who's "My Generation", while another is reminiscent of "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix. Every now and then the technician comes through on the PA to remind me to keep still, but you are already so tightly enclosed there's no room for anything more than the slightest twitch anyway. At last it is over, and I remind myself to advise my patients about to undergo the procedure: "I warn you, it isn't a very pleasant experience"

Could have been worse though. Last time they piped radio 2 into the scanning room; at least I was spared that on this occasion.