MRI Narrative

This was written about a year ago...but it still amuses me.

07.08.07

When I was in London...it became apparent one night that I was not as healthy as I should be. After a frantic phone call to my mother, much embarrassment, and then trying my best to forget about it and have a good time, I lived out my last month in that brilliant city.

And came home to a doctor's appointment.

Which led me here.

Sitting in a generic waiting room, watching an old episode of “Charmed” on television and reading a back issue of "People."

When people don't know what's wrong with you, it's a terrifying feeling. Four doctors. Countless visits. One CAT Scan. Eight viles of blood. And now an MRI.

For something that could be a tumor on my pituitary gland or a side effect of a pill.

I hate hospitals. This one in particular. Each of my grandparents has been here to stay before. Some of them more than once. And now here I sit in the basement, waiting for the radiologist to come and pick me up. Flipping through this magazine. Glancing enviously at a photo of Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz. Finding myself hating her, but hating him more for dating a brainless tart like her. Wishing he'd get back together with that girlfriend who makes him so miserable so he'll write more lyrics about a real girl and not this pseudo-pop princess. Looking at all the ugly dresses stars have been wearing to God knows what awards show. Staring at the pictures of Jennifer Aniston's new boyfriend and finding myself loathing every mention of Brad Pitt. Asshole.

When the radiologist comes to pick me up from the room, I flop the magazine back onto the table and her attention immediately goes to my feet.

"You can go get your sandals, you know. We have to walk to the room. It's a walk."

What she means is that I should get my shoes out of the locker I've stashed my clothes in. This will take more time and I have to be to work in like an hour.

"Is it okay if I don't wear them?" I ask. She gives me a strange look. She's probably like my bosses. Thinking something will fall on my toes and I'll sue the hell out of the hospital. "I mean, I walk barefoot practically everywhere anyways."

She shrugs her shoulders and starts walking. Immediately, I start to follow her, trying to keep my hospital gown closed as much as possible. This is quite a feat in itself as it's hard to tie something up in the back by yourself. Add into this equation the fact that I decided to wear green underwear that day and the gown was practically transparent.

The radiologist gives me the rundown of what's going to happen. I'm going to lie on the table. She's going to slide me in. They're going to take photos of my brain. Then they're going to take me out, inject dye in me and then take more photos. I need to be as still as possible. Do I have any metal in my body that could possibly mess up my scan?

I tell her no, that my earrings are out. Then lie down on the table when we finally arrive in the room. She's telling me it'll be cold and hands me a thin blanket. I close my eyes, wanting to erase this room from my vision. It's square. It's got a white floor and white walls. There are a few windows, but they do little for the interior of the room.

She hands me a pair of earplugs, telling me it's going to be loud. I push them into my ears thinking they're kind of like the earphones I use for my iPod, but they fit a little differently. The radiologist keeps talking to me which seems to be a waste since I have earplugs in now and can't hear a single word she's telling me.

And then it's time.

Leaving the room, she pushes a button which slides me into the machine.

Being alone, like really alone, in a tube in the dark, encompassed on all four sides is a feeling unlike anything I've ever had to experience. I hate cramped, closed places. Add in the fact that I can't move and pretty much all that's left of me are my thoughts.

And a lot of thinking goes on.

First I try not to think of death. Death is something that really freaks me out. Like really freaks me out. Whenever I think about it, I have to move and run and do something because it terrifies me. And now I'm in this tube and I can't move and I can't do anything.

Forcing the thought from my brain, I think of Fall Out Boy and Pete Wentz again, but terrified that disgust will cloud my MRI when Ashlee Simpson enters the equation. I think of stuff going on in my life that I'm not happy with...and that just makes me want to cry.

So instead, I start to think about the one person who would have had me diagnosed months and months and months ago.

Dr. House.

For real.

That man may take a few days to figure out what's wrong with a patient, but when he does, BAM. That's it. Here I am for months and months trying to figure out what's wrong with me. This could have been solved so much quicker. But then again, there's one problem.

House isn't a real doctor.

I mean, I'm sure that out there somewhere is a doctor of his magnitude. But let's face it. He doesn't exist.

Soon enough, I'm being slid out of the tube and the radiologist begins attempting to find a vein. She attempts more. And even more.

But the veins in my arms don't want to cooperate. So she taps a vein in my hand. And taps it. And taps again. What feels like it takes forever probably takes twice as long. And soon enough, I feel a prick in my hand and will myself to another place.

I hate needles.

When I'm back inside the tube again, I start to think about House some more. I think about the season finale. I think about the spoilers I've read for the next season. I don't want Cameron and Chase gone. I really could care less about Omar Epps character. He annoys me. But if the other two are gone, I fear what the show will be like. I have no doubt House will be just as snarky. But what about the rest of his crew?

For the rest of my MRI, I wonder about this show and when I finally am brought back out of the tube, I realize that not once inside did I think about work or friends or family for a long period of time. Instead, I was more focused on a TV show.

I climb off the table and am woozy. The dye they put in me has made me feel awkward and I feel like I could pee out a river...but it's over.

Walking back to the dressing room, swaying back and forth, I realize this experience is finally over.

But they still don't know what's wrong with me.

If only Dr. House were real.

How-To Study Abroad, Get the Most Out of Your Experience and Not Upset the Locals (…Well Not Much, Anyway)

So the typical college experience just wasn’t enough for you, was it? You’re starting to realize that you’re not getting any younger and you haven’t really seen the world…so why not study abroad?

If you’ve somehow successfully completed all the paperwork (no thanks to the study abroad coordinator who can’t remember your name), booked your flight (and nearly died from the price), and attained your passport (with a semi-decent photo), don’t breathe that sigh of relief just yet.

Before you leave, you need to realize that living abroad is nothing like a vacation. Let’s face it: You’re going to be living in a completely different culture away from everything you’ve ever known for months. Never fear. You can make the most out of your study abroad experience with a little common sense and a few tips from someone who has been exactly where you are.

Learn the ‘traditions’ of the locals ASAP.
I don’t mean the traditional Irish Two-Step or the best way to make haggis.
Every culture has its strange little rituals. For example, in London proper escalator etiquette is strongly observed. In America, people practically do their best to take up the entire escalator draping their limbs over the sides thus forcing those impatient people behind them to wait when all they want to do is run to the top. In London, one stands on the right and out of the way, so that those who are in a hurry can run up the left.

Do your best to learn these local ‘quirks’ as quickly as possible. While most of these people have been perfecting things like ‘elevator etiquette’ for years, it’s not impossible for you to learn it in a few weeks. Soon enough, when you spot a tourist not following these guidelines, you’ll understand why they get a bad rap.
According to one of my fellow partner’s-in-study-abroad-crime, Michelle Prengaman, “Another good way to adapt to local customs is to always read the newspaper...and not the real newspaper. No one wants to be depressed. We want to hear how Kate Moss slipped into cracks because of her weight loss. We want Posh Spice news and we want it NOW.”

Know your currency conversion rate.
In case you didn’t know, the American dollar’s value is sinking faster than the Titanic. Unless you’re studying in an obscure country, chances are that your money is going to be a lot more worthless than it already is in the States.
Know the conversion rate and adjust properly to it. You don’t want to run out of funds the first month you’re there.

Save your change too. “Don't spend those spare pence because like in airplanes, things tend to shift and sometimes...you just have to use that ‘public’ pay-to-use restroom...” Prengaman said.

Act like a tourist in tourist places.
While learning the local customs is a must, feel free to let loose and act like a tourist in tourist-like places. Take scandalous pictures in a red phone booth by Big Ben. Act like a dinosaur at the British Natural History Museum. Take photos with a pre-psych ward Britney Spears at Madame Tussaud’s. The people who visit these places are typically tourists and definitely won’t scorn you for your behavior.

Note: Avoid taking pictures on public transport. These are not tourist like places and acting like an idiot will only earn you dirty looks.

Make friends.
“You need to make friends quickly so that you can actually remember a night in London,” Prengaman said.

It’s important to keep some contact with those back home, but make new friends. Your fellow “study abroaders” will be some of the best friends you ever make. No one else is ever going to fully understand your experience. While it makes for great memories, it also means that after some long nights at the pub, they will have blackmail that will haunt you forever…especially if they’ve witnessed you confessing your love to a guy at the pub who you barely know.

Realize this is your home…for the next few months, anyway.
Like my good friend Mari once told me, you have a postal code when you live abroad. You will be living there for more than a week. This is your new home. Do your best to make it feel that way. Decorate your walls. Unpack. Throw yourself into your new environment.

And don’t forget to study.

Living abroad isn’t that difficult. Use some common sense and you’ll be blending in as best as you can in no time. Try to get the most out of your time abroad. Now sit back, put your seat into an upright position and get ready for take off. You’re about to embark on an adventure that you’re never going to forget.

(Mis)Understood Lyrics

The inner thirteen year old girl in me still enjoys some of MTV. I confess I watch 'The Hills' religiously. When I wake up early, I lay on the couch and watch terrible rap videos. I can't help it. It's something that I've done for awhile.

So when I realized that I'd miss the MTV Movie Awards, I set my DVR to tape the re-run (since they seem to do it like 80 times after the thing originally airs).

I'm not going to go into how lame they were (for God's sake, Zac Efron beat Seth Rogen, Jonah Hill, AND Michael Cera for Best Newcomer). What caught my attention and launched me off my couch for my cell phone was the new Pussycat Dolls song -- which they 'premiered' at the awards.



When it opened, all I could think was how Nicole Whats-her-name finally realized that she can't make it in music without her girls and while I hate her, part of that 13-year-old girl inside loves the PCD. As trampy as they look, their music is really quite fun. But that's not the point of this post.

The point is this...this is the chorus as I heard it:
When I grow up, I wanna be famous
I wanna be a star.
I wanna be in movies.
When I grow up, I wanna see the world.
Drive nice cars.
I wanna have boobies.

The thing that sent me into hysterics is obviously the last line there. Depending on which lyrics site you choose, I'm not the only one who heard the word 'boobies.' Though other lyrics sites will tell you it's not boobies, but 'GROUPIES.'

Which leads me to decide that I'm going to continue obnoxiously singing this song with the word 'boobies' in it. Because for real. Would the PCD be around without their racks? They're constantly being fined by various channels and stations for 'forgetting' to wear underwear when they perform live. And let's face it. Boobies get you groupies. So you better have nice boobs before you get famous (or during...when you can pay for some salene if you know what I'm saying). That and plastic surgery is such a 'huge' thing (How I love 'Nip/Tuck').

All of this reminds me of a babysitting stint I had one time...I was watching my cousin Danielle (who was like 4 at the time). We were sitting on the couch when she practically felt me up and went, "When I get older, I want some boobies too." Humiliating...yes, but it seems the PCD (or whoever writes their songs) felt the exact same way.