meeting the MRI
I had my first MRI yesterday. Try not to be jealous.
The test, a scan of both hips, was ordered by the superdoctor I have yet to meet. He sent me to a facility out in the burbs, explaining that their machine is better and stronger than the closer alternative. Seatmate took the day off to drive me, which had the side benefit of getting him out of work. I love when he plays hooky with me.
Medical people kept referring to the MRI as a GAG. Google told me that GAG is a nickname for glycosaminoglycan. An article at webmd.com explains:The test detects glycosaminoglycan or GAG, the polymer that gives cartilage (the material that cushions our joints) it's [sic] toughness and elasticity. Loss of GAG heralds the onset of osteoarthritis.
The new test maps GAG in the joint, showing where levels are low and osteoarthritis is beginning.
Which is pretty neat. My guess is that the doctor wants to know whether there's enough cartilage left to save the joints. Frankly, so do I.
I filled out some paperwork, handed it back, accepted a paper bracelet in return. A nurse brought me to a little exam room to inject the contrast dye, then sent me back out to walk laps around the waiting room to distribute it. I took off my watch, ring, and earrings to avoid having them ripped off by the magnets. I changed into a baffling gown with an apparently random assortment of tie strings, none of which had any obvious connections, and futzed with it until I was more or less covered. Then it was time to Meet the Machine.
I lay down on the tray with a pillow under my head and another under my knees. The tech strapped a plastic gadget over my torso and tied my toes together with tape. Then she gave me a heavy set of headphones with a microphone in front. They looked like something a pilot would wear, sans metal. In addition to protecting my ears from the noise, the headset allowed me to communicate with the control room. The headphones started transmitting lite rock, the tray slid into the machine, and we were off.
The test took forty minutes per hip. Without question, the worst part was the terrible music. I asked them once to change the station, but the result was the same, and I decided to ignore it rather than hassle the MRI techs. By the time the tray slid out at the end, I was mostly asleep.
Unfortunately, I have a long wait before I learn about the results. I don't meet the superdoctor until December. As much as I hate the uncertainty of not knowing, I know that meeting the doctor will start me on a path leading to major surgery. I've never even had minor surgery. I don't really want to have any surgery. I do want to be able to walk, though, so there we have it.
The test, a scan of both hips, was ordered by the superdoctor I have yet to meet. He sent me to a facility out in the burbs, explaining that their machine is better and stronger than the closer alternative. Seatmate took the day off to drive me, which had the side benefit of getting him out of work. I love when he plays hooky with me.
Medical people kept referring to the MRI as a GAG. Google told me that GAG is a nickname for glycosaminoglycan. An article at webmd.com explains:The test detects glycosaminoglycan or GAG, the polymer that gives cartilage (the material that cushions our joints) it's [sic] toughness and elasticity. Loss of GAG heralds the onset of osteoarthritis.
The new test maps GAG in the joint, showing where levels are low and osteoarthritis is beginning.
Which is pretty neat. My guess is that the doctor wants to know whether there's enough cartilage left to save the joints. Frankly, so do I.
I filled out some paperwork, handed it back, accepted a paper bracelet in return. A nurse brought me to a little exam room to inject the contrast dye, then sent me back out to walk laps around the waiting room to distribute it. I took off my watch, ring, and earrings to avoid having them ripped off by the magnets. I changed into a baffling gown with an apparently random assortment of tie strings, none of which had any obvious connections, and futzed with it until I was more or less covered. Then it was time to Meet the Machine.
I lay down on the tray with a pillow under my head and another under my knees. The tech strapped a plastic gadget over my torso and tied my toes together with tape. Then she gave me a heavy set of headphones with a microphone in front. They looked like something a pilot would wear, sans metal. In addition to protecting my ears from the noise, the headset allowed me to communicate with the control room. The headphones started transmitting lite rock, the tray slid into the machine, and we were off.
The test took forty minutes per hip. Without question, the worst part was the terrible music. I asked them once to change the station, but the result was the same, and I decided to ignore it rather than hassle the MRI techs. By the time the tray slid out at the end, I was mostly asleep.
Unfortunately, I have a long wait before I learn about the results. I don't meet the superdoctor until December. As much as I hate the uncertainty of not knowing, I know that meeting the doctor will start me on a path leading to major surgery. I've never even had minor surgery. I don't really want to have any surgery. I do want to be able to walk, though, so there we have it.