Monday, 10 September 2018

Someone doesn't like the music of MRI


A call from the hospital to go to MRI came the next day, as there was a cancellation. Edwin took me in as Ann can't drive with her plastered arm. Three hours later I was in a theatre gown under the great magnetic tunnel, ear plugged and headphones on listening to Abba at full volume, to drown the clicks thumps and strange buzzing of the pulsing power sweeping my bladder. It took about 35 minutes, but they wouldn’t share the results.

In the second scanner was a lady who went in with me. I know she was 84, because she had to give her date of birth. She was in a wheel chair, and very deaf – her daughter kept shouting the questions and instructions to her, before helping her from the chair to the MRI bed. She has scarcely laid down, when she started screaming and refused to continue, so they had to wheel her out again. Edwin said her daughter was furious because she’d wasted her time – not to mention the lost MRI time for another needy patient.

They gave me the appointment for a CAT scan while I was there, so two days later Mary-Anne drove me in again for that. Again, they refused to show me the pictures or discuss it. And I thought they were trying to become more transparent and share patient details with we “customers” – I horrid name for a secretive service.