Claustrophobia inside an MRI Machine
I didn’t know I was claustrophobic until I had my MRI today (last Tuesday). Never once experienced claustrophobia. Not once, not ever. Until today (last Tuesday, I’m just now posting this thing I wrote Tuesday on Christmas Eve).
It wasn’t just any MRI machine. They told me afterward it was the smallest one in Central Illinois—and the reason they told me that is because when they lowered the thing over my head and slid me back into that tunnel, I realized something all at once:
I was completely helpless.
I couldn’t push a button and make myself leave. I was trapped. And so was the breath in my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. That’s when it hit me—this is why they give you that little air-pump device, in case something goes wrong or you panic.
It’s like a little balloon on a cord. You squeeze it, it makes a big, loud noise, and they come rushing back in case something’s wrong—like if you forgot to tell them about an implant and the machine is trying to rip it out of your body, or in case you’re claustrophobic.
Well, they had just slid me in when I said, “Wait a minute,” before they walked away. “Can you pull me out real quick?”
They pulled me out, and I started trying to catch the breath that wasn’t in my lungs.
They noticed I was breathing hard. It felt just like the anxiety attacks I had right after Mom died. You never think you’re going to have one—until you have one. I never would’ve thought, in a hundred-thousand million years, that I’d have anxiety attacks after Mom died. But I did. And I never knew I was claustrophobic either—until they slid me into that tight little space and panic showed up uninvited.
They pulled me out, and even though I wasn’t sweating or screaming, I was still in a controlled panic.
So I said, “I’m just going to close my eyes and act like I’m falling asleep.”
They asked, “Do you want a washcloth for your eyes?”
I thought they meant a wet one. But they brought a dry washcloth and laid it over my eyes. Somehow, that helped. They slid me back in, and I focused on my breathing and prayer—breathing and prayer at the same exact time.
Controlled breaths. Deep breaths. Praying. Breathing in the Spirit of God—something I’ve learned to do over the years. The breath of life.
And then something unexpected happened.
It became… enjoyable.
That’s right. The claustrophobic feeling faded away. Toward the last eight minutes or so, it was actually enjoyable. Then they pulled me out and told me, once again, that it was the smallest MRI machine in all of Peoria County for Carle Health, and they sent me on my way.
They told me five to seven business days for the results. I didn’t bother telling them it might be five to seven weeks, because they might have trouble finding my pea-sized brain inside those MRI images. But I kept that to myself. Too many dad jokes already.
Although—I did hit them with a good dad joke they’d never heard before.
Before I laid down on the table, they said something about magnets, and I said, “Well, I do have a magnetic personality. Do you think the MRI machine will rip that out of me?”
They said, “We’ve never heard that one before.”
So I guess I’ll leave you with that one.