going in to get an MRI is uncannily similar to conducting your own funeral
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Poast new message in this thread
Date: May 15th, 2024 3:59 PM Author: Sienna patrolman base
you go alone to a strange, unfamiliar place where all the halls and windings have the same, timeless institutional white walls and ceilings, confused even if you tried to prepare with a map. the only people to help you are geriatric volunteers who look at least one step into the grave themselves, and eventually one might be able to point a bony finger to the rear stairway that reaches the basement. these machines are kept further below than others, i'm told, because the weight makes them liable to crash down through the floor if there is ever any jolt to the structural soundness of the building. eventually you find your way, ritualistically recite your name, birthday, etc., and get led to a room where you strip yourself to don hermetically sealed robes, complete with pure white undergarments to only be worn once, as if discarded for purity's sake after the ritual. you then recite your medical history -- as you get older, it must seem like it is encompassing more and more of your life, or what you can remember of it -- and are led into another set of rooms. these are darker, and the large machines sit eerily in the gloom. you are instructed to lie down. depending on the thoroughness of the nurse or tech, you almost have to make your body go limp so that you can be positioned just so. your head is fastened into a white plastic cage, and you are slowly conveyed into a tube. the space is tight. i absent-mindedly wondered if there was an american-sized one somewhere else in the basement. your hands have nowhere to go, and mine instinctually rest in where my lap would be, one over the other. the instinctive pose, it occurs, is how maidens are depicted on the lids of sarcophagi from gentler ages. except instead of a bouquet of flowers--a gentle symbol of marriage, perhaps, that other momentous transitional moment in one's life--there is a rubber squeeze ball reminiscent of the play horns they used to attach to plastic toy cars sized for children. you lay still, preternaturally still, perhaps with the aid of ativan or xanax, and you wait. and wait. and wait.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5528880&forum_id=2#47664485) |
Date: May 15th, 2024 4:03 PM Author: filthy bawdyhouse voyeur
great poast, would read again
(also really hope i dont ever have to go through this)
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5528880&forum_id=2#47664512) |
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