Today I went into London for an MRI scan - apparently they don’t have the technology around our parts - which felt and sounded a bit like I was being 3D-printed; that, or I was being sent through the internet via a dial-up modem: let me know if you find me anywhere.
The reason for the scan was to try and shine more light on my long-term dizziness, though I’m concerned they may also have noticed my tiny, tiny brain in the process. It was a strange experience, though I used the time to meditate, partly as I thought this would make me less likely to move. Thankfully it only took around half an hour, which was pretty bearable as the noise and sensation weren’t exactly conducive to meditation really.
I couldn’t help but think of my dad’s rather extreme visit to Lister Hospital a couple of months ago; a day that started with the police breaking down his door and ended with him being whisked off to Addenbrooke’s by ambulance in the early hours of the morning for emergency brain surgery to drain the bleeding to the brain that just a few hours earlier I’d been told would - let’s be briefly euphemistic - be the end of him. Thankfully he’s now doing very well, but his rapid decline and then miraculous improvement after the doctor said he only had hours to live is an experience I wouldn't want again in a hurry.
I was with him for that whole day (for which he was mostly unconscious) and waited outside the room while he had the brain scan that eventually revealed the nature of his injury; if it weren’t for that scan they wouldn’t have saved him. As I lay with my head in the same machinery today I pictured the 3D image of my dad’s head that the specialist showed me onscreen as he candidly yet methodically went through what I was seeing and what it meant; if it weren’t for the dire circumstances it would have been fascinating, but instead it was pretty grim; thank God for the benefit of retrospect and for extremely powerful magnets too.