I was on a ladder painting the ceiling when the ladder gave way and suddenly I was on the floor with a blown out knee. As the cats watched with interest, I gasped for a moment and then finished the ceiling, telling myself I was fine. I remembered the words of one of the coaches in high school whenever someone was injured: “Don’t make a scene. A little pain never hurt anyone.”
But when my knee swelled up like an eggplant and I was unable to walk or even stand I knew that, like it or not, a doctor was in my future. I called my middle sister for advice; she lives in a condo on the beach, and, thanks to her network of widows and busybodies, knows every doctor in South Florida.
First, she pointed out that my bad knee was my own fault. “This is what you get for being a do-it-yourselfer,” she pointed out. This was true, but not helpful. “You’ll need an MRI,” she observed and she recommended a doctor at Holy Cross, adding, “Are you claustrophobic?” I said I wasn’t.
My younger brother nixed that doctor. “He’s a butcher,” he said. He paused thoughtfully, and recommended a sports medicine doctor. “You’ll need an MRI,” he said. “Are you claustrophobic?” I said I wasn’t.
The sports medicine doctor manipulated my knee and clicked his tongue. “You’ll need an MRI,” he said. “Are you claustrophobic?” I paused briefly before I said that I wasn’t. “That’s what everyone says,” he said darkly.
The doctor’s assistant gave me a referral to the MRI center and asked if I was claustrophobic. “Why does everyone keep asking that?” I said. She smirked. “Some people totally freak out when placed into a coffin-like tube for 40 or 50 minutes,” she said, looking at me appraisingly, as though estimating just how long it would take for me to totally freak out.
I was disturbed. I have never been claustrophobic, but then I have also never spent significant amounts of time in a coffin-like tube either. But I made the appointment for the MRI.
On the appointed day I limped to the MRI center. “Are you claustrophobic?” asked the receptionist. “Do you have piercings? Tattoos? Metal shavings in your eye?” She paused, adding helpfully that one tiny piece of metal anywhere near the MRI machine could have disastrous consequences. “That magnet will grab that metal and not let go,” she said. “It wouldn’t be pretty.”
Another technician ushered me into the MRI room, asked if I was claustrophobic and repeated the admonition against anything metal anywhere near the machine. I emptied the pockets of my cargo shorts, took off my shoes and was rolled into the MRI, not feeling claustrophobic in the least.
I was about to doze off when I remembered with horror that the zipper on my cargo shorts is metal. I began to visualize the machine lifting me by my fly front and spinning me from the ceiling, where I would remain until they cut me down, hours later. On one hand, I did not want to abort the MRI, but neither was I so polite that I was willing to be suspended by my private parts from the ceiling. As I usually do in a crisis, I did nothing: I broke into a cold sweat but did not make a scene.
And then, the MRI got quiet; the test was over and my manhood was intact. The tech wheeled me out saying brightly, “You see? Nothing to it. How’s that knee feel?” “A little pain never hurt anyone,” I said.