I went for an MRI scan on my knee this morning. The knee specialist I saw last month, who looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman and sounded like Pavel Chekov, told me that I probably have a torn meniscus and that I should “mentally prepare myself” for surgery. Quite how one mentally prepares for knee surgery, I’m not sure, but the fact that he leant forward, tipped his glasses down and looked very worried was certainly a huge help.
Anyway, so there I was at 8.00am today, bright-eyed, bushy-haired and back at the scanning unit, which comprises about seven trailers parked in a leisure centre car park. A long, pale man who slightly resembled a noodle asked me a list of questions from his Very Important Clipboard, including whether I’d got any shrapnel in my eyes (they’re not that bright), any history of epilepsy, any heart conditions or any history of epilepsy (tricksy guy asked me twice, but I still didn’t have epilepsy).
Once I’d answered to the negative on all counts, he helpfully trussed me up on a table with my knees locked down and a pair of particularly sexy ear protectors over my delicate shell-likes. It was quite something and I’m rather sorry I don’t have a picture to share*.
The scan was uneventful (as scans really should be) and felt rather like sliding into a very large, very noisy toilet roll tube. I can use this analogy, of course, because that’s actually happened to me, at least once**. There I lay, with my fabulous headphones and my twitching knees, while Noodle Man magnetised me in what’s sure to be the start of my own super-hero story. 15 minutes later and it was all over – I was free to hobble down the vertiginous metal steps at the back of the trailer, wondering why the musculoskeletal scanning unit had been designed like some kind of Ewok-kingdom/trailer park hybrid.
I should get the results within the next two weeks – I’m hoping for a sooner-rather-than-later hospital date so I can get the operation over and done with, but we’ll see. To be honest, it’ll be a relief to get the problem sorted once and for all, and I’m planning on using the recovery period (about 12 weeks) as an opportunity to lie around in a silk dressing gown and write my masterpiece, as though this blog post isn’t just that.
** also a total lie