Here am I, lying in my tin can...

So, while I was in the hospital, the Doctor ordered an MRI to see if that would give him a clue as to the cause of my problem. Never mind that I had already had a CAT scan, an X-ray, and a very thorough ultra sound procedure.

I had never had an MRI before, but I knew that if you are a wee bit claustrophobic some pharmaceutical assistance might be in order. The doc agreed; they pumped a couple of vials of Benedryl into my IV, promised more help when we got there, and wheeled me off downstairs to the MRI cave. The tech who lives in the cave checked me over carefully for anything metal, took a look at my IV and said, "Uh uh. I can't use that." It seems that at some point the IV had come out of the vein and the arm was now "infiltrated." That's medical talk for "your arm is now about twice its normal size and all that Benedryl isn't doing doodley."

But, before the tech sent me back upstairs, he said that he needed to check "the fit." I would have felt better about that if he wasn't sizing up my belly all the while. Now folks, I admit that I am not svelte. I'll even admit to being stout. Okay, I'm fat, and my stomach is where most of my fat resides. But I had a medical condition that had me very bloated and extended, okay? Can I get a break here?

So he plops me up on this skinny little rail-bed, velcros a big pad of some kind over my abdomen, and rolls me into a Pringles can!  

Me: Wait! I was promised drugs! Excuse me? I need to go home now! Ooof! The pad is pressing on my very tender abdomen! "THAT HURTS!! STOP!"
Voice on an intercom: "Okay. That's what I thought. You don't fit. Let's just get you out of there."
Me: "Wait! The pad is jammed! It's bunching up! STOP!"
Voice on an intercom: "Okay. Wait right there. I'll get it out."
Me: What do you mean wait right here? I'm stuck in a tin can! I can't get out! MOMMY!

With assistance, I was extricated from the MRI, given a failing report, and sent back to my room in disgrace, fat arm and all. You might think that would be the end of it, but never underestimate the power of the medical establishment.

In a bit the nurse came in and said, "I need to measure you. We're going to send you across town to another hospital that has a larger MRI machine, but they want to know just how big you are, first." So she whips out a tailor's measure and wraps it around the largest part of my body - which we have already clearly established is my belly - gets the number and goes off.  In a few minutes she is back. "I need you to lie on your back in the bed." Measure, measure, off she goes. Next, she comes back with an assistant and the two of them try different approaches and different angles, but it's still all about the belly. This goes on for a good thirty minutes or so; the nurses measure and then go off to talk on the telephone. Finally, the tech from the MRI cave shows up and he does all the measurements again!

After a couple of hours they all seem to agree: while I am flat on my back, it is the dimension from the bed to the farthermost extent of my stomach that counts, and this measurement is... are you ready for this? Thirteen inches. I'm beginning to think I'm the circus fat person being fitted for a tent and the total distance from my back to my front is only thirteen inches! Just a scooch over one measly foot! This number seems to satisfy everyone, and the next thing I know I'm in an ambulance on my way across town.

I did indeed fit in the new MRI, but that's another story.