Where the Scary Things Are

“I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality.”
― Frida Kahlo 

“Nightmares exist outside of logic, and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear.”
― Stephen King

In my last dream of the night, I was at MGH. It was MRI day — which, in reality, is coming up soon.

I’ve mentioned my rather muscular claustrophobia and MRI aversion before, have I not? Yeah, at least a few times. That and my intense struggles to get back in and stay in the damn tube after God died.

Now, I’ve def not been conscious of any anticipatory shivers, shakes and angst ridden willies but apparently they’re present and accounted for. They stood tall in Dreamland last night. The fuckers.

In this nasty little phantasm, I was in a gaggle, a swarm even, of 20 or 30 young women — all of us kitted out in that most divine of fashion statements — the Johnny.

Why’s it called a Johnny? No one’s absolutely certain BUT apparently it’s a regionalism, possibly originating at MGH even!

"I was told this was due to doctors training in Mass. General where the term was first used." The origin story she'd heard was that the open-back gown allowed easy use of the toilet, or "john," an explanation so simple it's almost guaranteed to be false.

In any case, us wimmins were all up for Nf2 procedures that morning. Some were having  surgery, some radiation and then there was me. I was the only one scheduled for an MRI.

The baby doc in charge of shepherding us to our various surgical and non-cuttery ports of call was sternly dour. This was a bothersome task for him — he’d much prefer doing rounds or conferring with the staff versus this patient herding shit.

Once he had us all suited up and in one room, he loudly and smarmily cleared his throat, getting our attention. He would show us to our various ORs, radiation room and test closets. Wheee.

We were taking the steps down from our third floor corral, descending farther and farther below ground. By the second sub-basement, the stairwells and floors looked nothing like a hospital. It was all huge, industrial overhead grey painted pipes, boilers and chain link storage cages. As we descended, our ranks became smaller as each woman reached her salle de montage.

With my brilliantly well developed claustrophobia, being in the third level below ground was already beginning to trigger my inevitable panic attack. And then we came to my MRI room. The grim intern opened the door and there, standing ready to shove me into the tube, was a monster. Picture something between Alien and the creature from Where the Wild Things Are. Yeah, adorably, pants wetingly scary.

My reaction, there in dreamland was “christ almighty and what the fuck — I’m outta here!”  And then I woke up.

So then, what do I gather from this little nighttime horror show?

A) I need to start my chill out meditation exercises early (my MRI is on September 11th) this year.
B) Must get my ‘script for lorazapam  refilled
C) I guess, while I’m still angsty about this MRI crap, I’m doing OK. My reaction to the monster was more annoyance than fear.

Yea me.

“You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.”
― Megan Chance, The Spiritualist 

“I really like it when a bad dream doesn't scare you...it inspires you instead'.”
― Fwah Storm