Imagine lying in a coffin while someone runs a jackhammer right next to your head. Now don’t move for 30 minutes.
Welcome to the world of an MRI.
Thanks to some brutal headaches over the past couple of weeks, my doctor thought it was prudent for me to get my brain checked (due to my history with melanoma).
The results?
1. I have a brain. I know that is a shock to some of you.
2. The scan came back normal (although as my boss said, that doesn’t mean you’re normal.) No tumors. No aneurysms. No problem. The headaches can be dealt with.
3. I am claustrophobic. Lying in that tube made my skin crawl.
4. I am very good a meditating (I got through my claustrophobia through breath work.)
I got the results this morning. I was in the backyard getting Pip (who was chasing a cat) when my doctor texted me the good news. What was my reaction? Let’s just say the knees of my jeans were muddy.
When you are a melanoma survivor, it is natural to assume the worst. And I have. I’ve been crippled by fear for the past few days. Fear that I wouldn’t get to see my boys grow up. Fear that my wife would have to raise them alone. Fear that I would not get to continue to live this life that I love. (Yes, I look forward to the afterlife, but I am enjoying the one I have right now super bunches). I laid out what I would do if I got the very worst news possible. I planned how I would live.
And you know what?
I am going to live like that anyway. As I laid in that damn noisy tube, I pictured what brought me joy. I saw my middle son playing soccer. I heard my oldest son playing his baritone. I felt my youngest son giving me a hug. I cherished my wife’s blue eyes. I felt my lungs burn as I ran at sunrise.
“If you move, we have to do this again. I’ll have to hit the reset button,” The tech said as I slid into the tube.
I didn’t move.
And no, he didn’t have to hit the reset button. But I sure have. I get a chance to continue to live.
I think I’ll do just that.