“What are you still doing here?” my colleague asked.
“I’m waiting for my last patient. She’s been in MRI all afternoon. I just need to say hi and touch her. With one finger,” I answered.
“Maybe you could … just go down there.”
(That’s what she said.)
“Yeah. I should.”
It’s rare to venture down into the black hole of radiology anymore. A few years ago, you might have to hunt down an X-ray firsthand, but these days, you can just look it up on any computer in the hospital.
Even though radiology is on the second floor here, it still manages to seem like the basement. Most of the rooms are devoid of people, even moreso of light, but you know there’s got to be somebody somewhere, right? So it kind of turns into a dungeon crawl. Maybe this door – nope, locked. Or that one with the … biohazard radioactive sign on it, oops. Or these techs, standing around talking… about concerts.
“This MRI is down. The working one is down in the other building.”
One of the MRI machines is always down, it seems, especially when you ask a bunch of techs on a group talking break. I heard the techs break out in laughter as I closed the door.
A half mile of corridors finally led me from the hospital to the farthest possible department that I wouldn’t need a car to drive to. I eventually found the light of a doorway at what seemed like the convergence of odd angles of light and shadow. I could almost hear the hum of life as I approached: Magnetic Resonance Imaging Room.
I snuck up behind the man operating the scanner (not intentionally, I just wear quiet shoes). He flipped through the black and grey digital images of truth as if they were a psychedelic 1930′s cartoon. Beyond the large window in front of us, my patient was being slid out of the double donut of the all seeing magnetic eye.
“Is that Mrs. Maguffin?” (No relation to this McGuffin.)
“Yep, just finished.”
“Can I go in there?”
“We’re done. Go ahead.”
I walked over the red demarcated Line of Doom and entered the MRI room. Two techs were easing her out onto a stretcher.
“Hi, Mrs. Maguffin, just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Oh, hello doctor. I’m feeling better today.”
I put my stethoscope to her chest and listened for a second when –
“Hey, what, what are you doing here?” the older tech asked.
“What?”
“Look at this metal. Your badge. Your pens. Your stethoscope. You can’t wear that stuff in here! It could start flying around like shrapnel.”
Frankly I’d like to see that. Especially this pen in your head. I looked at my gear for any signs of impending metal storm.
“The guy said I could c–”
“Oh dear, your badge is probably erased now,” the other lady tech joined in, “and if you got any credit cards, those are probably gone too.”
“Isn’t it off?”
“You need to get out of here,” the man huffed as he physically pushed me out of the room.
“Bye Dr. Scott,” my patient said as I was manhandled back over the red line.
I’m not exactly a fan of being pushed by strangers but it was just too ridiculous to get mad about, like I’d just been ejected from the Special Olympics. I figured it would make a good story at least.
Back at the base office, I told my colleague what happened.
“And that whole thing about my cards being erased – I tried them out at the ATM and they’re fine. Whatever,” I put my hands up.
“Well,” she laughed, “I guess you shouldn’t listen to me anymore.”
(Doug, I’d like to hear any examples of MRI shrapnel you’ve seen or heard.)
