I wish I wasn’t writing this, but it’s that time again.
I am sitting on a chair in a long hallway with the vibrating sound of the MRI scanner.
My cannula is in and as I sit, I take my phone out to write as a coping mechanism.
It helps lower my anxiety as I can write the thoughts, feelings and emotions down rather than sit
with them occupying my mind.
Comfort, my radiologist, is from Nigeria, she is looking after me this time.
I always laugh and joke with the staff, again my coping mechanism to get me through the anxiety.
Thirteen years of scans and sitting here, I know I faint if the cannula is done sitting up so we find a bed for me to lay down when it goes in.
I feel a sharp scratch which has dampened down over the years due to my nerve damage, but I still register the pain in my mind.
I guess that’s the power of the mind.
I have to stay lying down for a few minutes or, as I explain to Comfort, she will have to pick me up off the floor.
We joke about it always being the big guys who faint at needles.
Within a few minutes I am back sitting waiting to go in for my scan
I try not to look at the cannula as that’s enough to also make me feel faint.
The buzzing noise from the
MRI vibrates and there seems to
be a constant stream of people
being pushed past in hospital
beds. This is definitely a million miles away from the gravel paths in the Cairngorms that I was just on the day before; I sit trying to process these two lives I seem to be living.
One as a Nike Athlete, the other as someone just hoping to stay tumour free.
I feel like I am in many ways more connected to my mind and body, yet disconnected from life.
It’s as if I am stuck in this recurring dream.
Before I can get all my thoughts down on paper, my name is called.
I pass an older gentleman as I go into the scanner. It’s the same machine as the one I visited last year when the lady before me was screaming in pain. I pause
to think of her and what became of her life.
A quick hello to the passing gentleman as he goes on his path and I walk towards the MRI machine.
Here we go again.
I hear a voice asking if I have had a scan, I pause and say, “Yes, 13”. The lady replies with “OK, so you know what’s coming.”
“Oh my goodness” were the next words I heard.
Head clammed in and as I close my eyes I feel the first vibration, I take myself back to the mountains and my bike for solace.
Fifty minutes later it’s over, my mind racing like a computer game on the highest level.
Stepping out into London streets after this is very challenging for me and I feel numb, I know that the only thing to do is to get back to Scotland as soon as I can.
I am also very grateful for the reminder that every breath I take
is a gift, every pedal revolution is a gift.
It’s something that I never take for granted as I am fully aware it can all be taken from me in a moment.
