An itch blossomed on my nose just as the MRI technicians pushed me headfirst into the long white tube. I could not scratch it because their thrice-repeated order still rang in my now plugged ears: Do not move!
Itches have lives of their own. The one on my nose faded away, but another started up on my neck. When that one disappeared my foot became itchy, then my knee, then my nose again, then a spot on my back that I couldn’t have reached even on my best day. I had to ignore them all, holding absolutely still as the machine around me thumped and clattered. I took in air in shallow breaths, wondering if even that was enough movement to ruin the resolution of the images created by the resonating magnetism.
The noises went on for quite some time, eventually distracting me entirely from my wandering itch. At first I just wondered why they kept changing and what the different sounds meant. Then they began to unnerve me and I wished they would stop, but when they did stop the prolonged silences disturbed me even more. Then I needed to pee and that gave me something else to focus on, but not in a pleasant way. By the time all the whirring and banging was done, I was quite ready to be wheeled back out of the tube.
However, once outside the MRI the technicians helped me get off the gurney and as I set my right foot on the floor I was reminded why I was having my innards imaged.
I like walking. In fact, walking is my favorite mode of transportation, followed closely (when snow lies on the ground) by snowshoeing and cross-country skiing. All three happen to require the use of legs – the sounder the better. Unfortunately, one of mine was no longer as sound as it used to be.
The problem started when Jakarta went into the COVID-19 lockdown in March. Prior to that I had been getting most of my exercise by swimming an hour or two every day, but after the building management responsibly shut the pools I took to taking brisk walks around the rooftop gardens late at night when few other tenants were out and about. I took the stairs six flights down and then back up again, in part to avoid the possibly crowded elevators.
Within the first few days a twinge of pain developed in my right thigh as I walked. It was uncomfortable, but not enough to dissuade me from strolling along the pathways. Without giving it much thought I followed an age-old medical treatment: Ignoring the pain and hoping it will go away. At the time it seemed like a reasonable approach, especially since Indonesia and the rest of the world was in the middle of a pandemic. Hospitals were dangerous places and doctors had more important ailments to treat than sore legs.
I ignored the pain for four months. I did not go away. It got worse. Walking was no longer a pleasure, but became an excruciating test of endurance.
The doctor, when I finally limped into the nearby RS Pluit hospital to consult one, mumbled something about a pinched nerve and put me on a variety of drugs and a round of physiotherapy – heat packs and ultrasound treatment. The pain still got worse. On the next visit he prescribed more drugs, injected something into my back and advised more physiotherapy. Worse again. The doctor decided that poking my back with his finger to find where it hurt was no longer enough. He said he needed an MRI scan to uncover the problem.
That’s why I spent that half-hour or so in the noisy white tube and why I am now sitting here waiting for the results. I fear the worst, but am hoping for the best, hoping my walking days are not a thing of the past.