That’s the first thing they ask when you tell them you’re there for your scheduled MRI.

Not that I know of…but I’ve never had an MRI, so I don’t know if an MRI tunnel will bring out this fear in me.

Fear is actually not a word or feeling or thought that I’ve had since this whole mis-adventure began.  Today, I’m actually excited about getting my first MRI.  I feel that I’m doing something toward the goal — the goal of throwing out this unwanted, unwelcome visitor in my body.  To me, it’s all about staying in motion.  Doing the next thing and the next thing.  Getting closer to finishing it off.

People along the way have tried to tell me a bit about what to expect, what it felt like for them, what the doctors might tell me.  I don’t hear anything.  I don’t want to know about anything until it’s time to know about everything.  This is that exquisite honeymoon period…the calm before the possible storm.  This is the time where I know that there’s something looming, but I get to enjoy my days.  My sense are at full alert.  I feel like the light sprinkle of rain outside my window is pounding in my head.  My morning lattes are enjoyed with a new burst of flavors in my mouth.  I see people as I walk to work.  I see people!  I really see people!  Do you know what that means?  It means I don’t just walk by them anymore, my mind onto the next thing.  I actually look into their eyes.  I ask them, in my mind, what they are thinking, how they feel, what pains them right now and what are they so excited about that they might jump out of their skin.  I feel oddly different, though I know that I’m not.  I feel like they see me, like they’ve not seen me before. Do they see my cancer, I wonder? Is it noticeable?  Some look back at me intensely, some look away quickly, some even smile, catching themselves and wondering what the heck!

This intensity is filled with a wild energy — like sparks rushing through my body.  Like a roller coaster ride except without the fear .  There’s a warmth throughout my cells and I think about it being the cancer.  Then I realize that it’s not that at all — no just the opposite.  It’s the intensity of love.  Love.  A sense of complete calm, peacefulness, letting go — really letting go.  It will all be the way it is meant to be.  The lessons I’m to learn in this lifetime and to share with those who are open to the experience.

So, I don’t know if I’m claustrophobic, but I’m about to find out!  A lovely young thing, Karen, the MRI technologist, takes me thru the doors, down that hallway.  She is very sweet and very kind…the ties go in the front, the jewelry goes into this bag and we’ll lock it all up for you.  Do you like Enya?  Sure, I say, works for me. We’ll stream music through your headphones, to help block out the sound of the JACKHAMMERS DRILLING in the tunnel.  Great, I think.  I”ll just take a nice 30 minute nap.  No really…that’s what I thought.  I’ll meditate myself into a sleep state.

Oh, and about halfway through we’re going to inject some dye thru the IV we’re about to insert.  WHAAAT?! Evan had warned me about this, but I thought what does he know.  He knew!  Sure, OK, go ahead — nothing can beat the pain of delivering 3 babies au naturelle!  And oh BTW, when you’re in there, you can’t move — not even a little.  Am I allowed to breathe, I ask, just a tiny bit serious.  Karen laughs — of course, you’re going to be in there for 30 minutes!  But you’ll have to breathe really shallow.  I panic — what if I have to cough?  What if at that exact moment when the jackhammer camera is piercing it’s way thru the magnetic, metallic dyes — I cough. Do I ruin the picture?  DO you have to re-take?  She offers me water, just in case!  OK – not going to think about coughing.  Mental block in place!

So, I know for a fact that a MAN invented this mechanical contraption called an MRI.  Only a man would invent a skeletal frame onto which you climb in a most unladylike manner on all fours, drop your boobs into 2 boxes on either side of a metal rod that’s coated with a bit of plastic cushioning  Woah…feels like a hammer is pounding into my chest bones!  I am beginning to understand that I will probably NOT be napping during this experiment.

I climb on, settle in, ear plugs, ear phones, warm blanket.  Ready for blast off!  Enya starts playing in my headset…kinda soothing.  Then the jackhammers begin.  Not too sure what the point is of even having the music.  Must make the technicians feel better…feel like they are helping an awkward, difficult situation.

Honestly — the entire experience is nothing much at all.  It’s just another step on the road to the endgame.  I just want to know.  I thought I might not want to know.,, I like this place i”m in right now.  I’m done and disembark from the MRI bed as gracefully as possible.  Grateful for my upper body workouts — pushups is the only way out of the frame!

24 hours.  The doctor will call you in 24 hours.  WHAAAT?  Why will it take her so long to read my pictures?  Hey – this is all about me!  OK…I get back under control and beg them to have the doctor call me anytime day or night.  I want to know.  This knowing will get me thru til the next steps — interviewing the surgeons next week.  My glass will be half full — I”ll know half the truth.  Better than not knowing anything other than IT is there inside me!

1 hour.  That’s it.  That’s how long it takes for my phone to ring.  It’s Dr. Tortorelli.  She’s read the pictures.  She’s ready to share — do I have a pen?  Is this a good time?  No…call me back in my next life! Sheesh!  Yes – I have a pen and my brand new PINK notebook.  You won’t remember what the doctors tell you so be sure you always have your journal with you.  OK – check!  Got it!

Good news, she says.  YESSSS!!! It’s only in 1 breast and the cancer is NOWHERE else in your body, she tells me.  It’s not in the lymphnodes.  YESSS!!!  This is great news!  It is a little bigger than we originally thought – closer to 3 cm.  I don’t know what that means – compared to what?  I forget to ask — next time.   It’s hormone positive and that’s a good thing because we have medications that will help you.  OK.  OK.  So far I’m all good.  It’s close to the nipple, so be prepared because the surgeons will probably want to remove it — just to be safe.  I don’t even care — just get it ALL out of my body!  Every last nano-particle of this life-sucking blob…O-U-T!

I’m sitting in the car with Evan.  Writing it all down.  He reads over my arm.  I feel his eyes on the paper.  I feel the weight in my shoulders release.  Didn’t even know I was so intensely tense, or for how long. Days.

Thank you.  Thank you higher powers, universal divine being, God.  Thank you for this lump in the road.  For the unexpected lessons I expect to learn.  For the me I will become.  More than anything,  Thank you for keeping it simple, for protecting me.  I know it could be so much worse; so much more scary; so much more definite.  I’ve been given a chance — a chance to accept this gift and kindle the joy in my soul.  To smell the rain, to embrace the trees, to greet the morning clouds and to really really see people.