He pushed the tray I was lying on into the cylinder. My nose was about 10 centimetres from the top. It was like a coffin.
Oh fuck, a coffin.
I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled counting back from 5. It didn’t work.
The machine was noisy. I didn’t know MRI’s were loud. MRI’s weren’t really around when I was going through lymphoma 15 years ago. It was like someone was above me drilling.
I felt riddled with fear. So much fear. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t understand it. I don’t want my son to have a sick mum. I don’t want my boy to come to my funeral. I don’t want him to not have me around.
I don’t want to leave him.
But it happens. I’ve been to friends’ funerals. It’s not like this can’t happen. It’s not like this can’t be real. It’s not like it can’t be me.
How will I do it? I will do it. I won’t be defeated. I’ll be a warrior. That’s what my friend said. She died.
How long have I been in this machine? It feels like forever. The man said they would come in and do a Contrast injection after 20 minutes. It shows blood flow so they get a better picture.
I wonder how my man is going in the waiting room? He’s lost both sisters to cancer. I feel so sorry for him. This must be scary.
This is so fucking scary.
I hear the door open. The man switches off the machine. He’s like an angel. Such a warm smile, such sincerity.
‘Ok, that’s enough. We’ve got everything we need.’ I just look at him. I don’t say anything. He smiles that smile. ‘It’s ok. We don’t need to do the Contrast injection. The Dr can see what it is.’
I know I’m not saying anything. I’m just staring.
‘It’s not cancer. It’s a lipoma – a benign fatty tumour.
You. Are. Ok.’