I will be beside you before long

They send me down a flight of stairs, past the bright sunshine of the middle courtyard and around the waiting rooms filled with lively groups of impatient patients. The deeper I head into the depths of the hospital, the darker it gets. Hallways yellowed and worn with age are made dimmer by the harsh fluorescent bulbs that line the ceiling. At some point, even the directional signage with red arrows disappear; I realize I’ve hit my mark only after I’ve walked past it twice. I pass the receptionist my military ID and wait for five minutes before a tech beckons me around the corner.

He runs down a checklist. “No jewelry? Medical implants? Wearing a bra with an underwire? Recent tattoos?” No, no, no, yes – I had some work done about six weeks ago. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he replies as I unlace my Chucks, making a mark on his clipboard. “Let me know if you feel a burning sensation in the area, though.”

We cross through a glass-paned door into a startling sterile white room, a direct opposition to the rest of this hospital wing. I feel the hairs raise on my arms as the goosebumps start; it’s as cold as it is ascetic in here. The tech reaches into a cabinet as I pull myself up onto the sliding gurney, pulling out a warmed blanket that he arranges over my torso. He slips a plastic bulb into my right hand.

“Should take 45 minutes to an hour to complete the scan. Squeeze that if you start feeling claustrophobic and we’ll end the scan. I’ll check on you periodically, but try not to move, okay?”

I nod, jamming the earplugs into my ears. He slides me into the MRI machine. The tube feels disconcertingly narrow, the austere white ceiling only inches from my nose. As the machine starts, I can feel the warmth of the magnets on my thoracic spine, right between my shoulder blades. I close my eyes, clenching my jaw with each thump. THWACK-THWACK-THWACK. Against the dark backdrop of my eyelids, I try to place the familiarity of the sibilant whirrs between the thumps.

Got it.

Nine Inch Nails, Beside You In Time. Off of With Teeth.

I try to imagine Trent Reznor singing. Instead I doze off, dreaming that the tube is lined with shirred satin, a white casket with me inside. After five minutes or maybe forty, I wake with a start and a gasp, almost sitting up in my surprise.

Nothing like modern medicine to make you contemplate your own mortality.