This time it is a Willie Nelson reprisal. Cringe all you want my friends.

 

In the tube again

How I hate to get in that tube again

The life I had before this brain tumor journey began

And I can so wait to get in that tube again

In the tube again

Goin’ to hospitals that I’ve never been

Seein’ doctors I wish I’d never see again

And I can so wait to get in that tube again

 

Well I had no choice, but just last week I had to get in that hollow cylinder of steel again. I was up for my annual MRI to ensure that all signs of my “ex” remained untraceable, undetectable, invisible, and non-existent.

 

I’m a nearly eight-year brain tumor survivor, yet the further out I am from my meningioma excavation, the more anxiety-provoking this New Year’s rite of passage becomes for me. I wish I could shake the unshakeable fear, the walking on eggshells anxiety, all the what ifs I entertain in my previously probed mind. But I can’t.

 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

 

My repeated mantra just moments before two technicians aligned and secured my head before being sent into the tube. Thankfully, I’m not one to get claustrophobic.

 

I close my eyes and snapshots of my daughter and son together flash before me. I see Hannah and Hunter building sandcastles during a summer trip home to the same beach where I spent my own childhood summers.

 

This pleasant recollection is quickly interrupted by the technician announcing through the intercom that the next series of photographing my noggin’ is about to begin.

 

If only I could shut out the world and imagine being indulged at an all day spa experience instead. It might help strip all traces of stress from every pore.

 

But there is no pampering to be had. No hot stones to soothe taught muscles.  No Botox to smooth out deeply etched life lines.

 

Nor is there any paraffin waxed hands to restore moisture. Sure, I feel a warm compress around my left arm, but that’s to heat up a viable vein in preparation for my gadolinium injection. No MRI is complete without a comparison of snapshots of my brain without contrast compared to illuminated ones with contrast.

 

Instead of Enya to enjoy in the background while being lulled asleep, I’m kept wide wide awake by a cacophony of jackhammer drills and gongs. Jarring to say the least.

 

And once the wishful pampering is complete 45 minutes later, I’m not whisked away to a quiet sanctuary to be replenished with soothing oolong tea and dimmed lights. The harsh blinding glare of a waiting room is how the experience finishes off followed by the agonizing wait for the radiology report.

 

Nearly four hours to be exact.

 

Every minute of those four hours is worth it.

 

I’m greeted with a beaming smile and flashed two thumbs up.

 

I nearly squeeze the life out of my neurosurgeon, but the news doesn’t truly sink in until I see it in black and white:

 

FINDINGS: No enhancing abnormality is detected in the surgical bed. No infarct, midline shift or hydrocephalus is detected.

IMPRESSION: Stable appearance of the surgical bed in the right temporal lobe with no evidence of recurrence.

 

That’s right, the formerly evicted ex is turned away yet again by the NO VACANCY sign.

 

I can breathe again, that is until I climb back into the tube next January.