2: The MRI Scan

The ward stirred to life around 6:30 a.m.—lights brightened, tea trolleys clinked, and voices grew louder. I sat up slowly and looked across at Jake, his head hanging awkwardly as he tried to sleep in the upright chair. Rest was difficult in a place with so much activity. Life on the ward revolves around 24-hour schedules and routine. 

It was 8:00 a.m. when a muscly young man in a nice white linen shirt did his breakfast orders round. As a hospital staff member his casual appearance was a refreshing break from the uniformity of the hospital environment.  

“Can I get you anything for breakfast, Gilly?” he asked with a smile. Despite the little groans in my empty stomach, what he didn’t know was that since yesterday afternoon, my strictly controlled dietary regime had been suddenly overturned. It had introduced some chaos into my safe and familiar routine. I never eat breakfast and eat once a day at 7:00 p.m. Yesterday was different. I knew it would not be that easy for me to adapt and accept that I needed something to eat. 

“No, I’m OK, thanks. I’ve got my own food,” I replied. He didn’t give up easily, trying to sell the hospital’s basic staples. 

“Any toast? Porridge? Orange juice?” he inquired. 

“It’s OK, we’ve brought her something. She has her own food,” Jake politely explained. 

Jake then turned to me with some concern and convinced me that I really needed to eat something. A big part of me was very resistant—it would mean going against one of my indoctrinated food rules of never eating in the morning. Perhaps he could find me a non-threatening juice? He said he had seen some in the shop downstairs and would go to get me some. It wasn’t easy trying to accommodate my particular food needs, but he’d always tried; and now was no different. 

As he was getting up to make the trip to the little shop, a different nurse appeared. She was small, with brightly coloured red hair and some hand tattoos. 

“Morning, Gilly, I’m Laura. How are you feeling?” she asked, with concern. 

“I’m OK really. Just a bit tired. I think I need to drink more,” I replied, as if I was convincing her and myself that I really didn’t need to be lying there on a hospital bed. 

She’d got a little trolley with her that had a machine with digits on it. I knew what this was now—the three standard checks they did at intervals throughout the day: blood pressure, pulse and temperature readings. All of these were perfectly fine. Then she went away and came back with a small container that she put on my bedside table. I looked inside and saw a big oval, pale yellow tablet. 

“What’s this?” I asked with intrigue and suspicion. “Is this for me?” I didn’t take medication. I wondered if she’d got the right person. 

“Yes, the doctors have prescribed it,” she assured me, without offering any further information. I had that uncomfortable feeling that they knew something I didn’t. And all I could do was follow their orders and trust what was happening, until I had more answers. 

I proceeded to ask what this tablet was. 

“That’s Levetiracetam,” she told me. But I had to inquire further about this unknown, alien medical word. This was an anti-epileptic drug she told me – to prevent any further seizures. This made sense to me after yesterday’s episode, and I hoped that perhaps I could just take a pack of these Levetiracetam home with me, and I’d be fine. Then, nervously but willingly, I swallowed the tablet with a big gulp of water.

“The doctors will be on their round shortly, and then you should be due to go for your MRI later this morning” she said.  

A little after 9 a.m., a group of doctors arrived—three in total. One was clearly the lead consultant. He was tall, bald, with a calm but serious demeanour. He introduced himself and sat on the edge of the bed. 

“We’ve reviewed your CT scan. As I mentioned, it showed a mass on the right side of your brain. We need to carry out a more detailed MRI scan today. Hopefully, it will be this morning.” That word again, ‘mass.’ It had a sinister sound and whilst I knew nothing about what it was or what it might mean, I knew that it probably shouldn’t be there. It certainly wasn’t a good thing, so I guess that made it a bad thing. But how bad? Still, my mind didn’t leap to the worst-case scenario. My instincts told me this wasn’t anything serious.

When he left, I felt the urgent need to have the wash I’d been desperate for since arriving. I’d managed to remove my soiled leggings before bed last night, but you can imagine my urgency to stand under some hot, running, soapy water. I looked in the bulging carrier bag at the side of my bed and pulled out a bottle of zesty lemon and tea tree shower gel. I was looking forward to squeezing generous dollops of that fruity gel over my skin and indulging in the fragrant soapy lather and shower steam.  

I pushed the bathroom door open tentatively, expecting a tiny little cubicle with a mouldy shower curtain, pools of dirty water, hairs stuck to the sink and an odorous smell. Surprisingly it was a very spacious cubicle with a big mirror and a useful chair to put my bag on. Suddenly, just as I was seconds away from jumping under the hot running water, the door flew open and I heard a very apologetic voice, repeating 'sorry.' In my eagerness to get clean, I'd forgotten to lock the door and now there was some poor patient who had been unexpectedly subjected to a view of my naked bottom. An awkward situation for us both. After the initial shock of my unintentional flashing, I finally got to indulge in the satisfaction of cleaning every crack and pore of skin. It felt good. It was a few moments of feeling relieved and relaxed, which I knew wouldn't last but had at least helped. 

Back on the ward, I had no place to go other than, the bed. Frustratingly, I had no other option but to lie there and wait for this scan. Jake was still beside me on the uncomfortable chair and said he was going to pop to the shop for some breakfast. I told him to get something healthy but knew it would probably be a processed sandwich or greasy sausage cob. 

As I stared into space and then zoomed in on the nurse activity behind the ward desk, two familiar faces came bounding onto the ward, both looking fresh, bright-eyed and groomed. It was my sister Cat and her husband Gareth, full of smiles and banter. 

“So, what's going on? You better not be here long because you're costing me money. Goodness knows how much that car park’s gonna be,” my sister joked. 

“Don't worry, I'll be checking myself out later if they don't let me go,” I joked back. 

Then Gareth got on the comedic bandwagon. 

“We've heard about the leggings, Gill, so don't worry about that. We won't tell anyone: Spongeblob Shit-Your-Pants, Wayne Pooney, Shitney Spears...” 

“Oh yeah, Gareth; I like that one. Shitney Spears, that's good,” Cat giggled. Despite the seriousness of where we were and the fact that my MRI scan was imminent, the banter was a welcome distraction. Jake arrived back at my bedside with the three of us chuckling, and me telling him that my new name was Shitney Spears. 

“So what did you get?” I asked with curiosity. 

“I knew it,” I recoiled, as he ripped open the triangular box and bit into a chicken and bacon sandwich oozing with some fatty white matter. Time ticked away quicker now as we all cracked jokes and made small talk. 

It was 1:30 p.m. before a tall, stocky male porter appeared with a wheelchair at the end of my bed. 

“Hi, is it Gilly? I'm here to take you for your MRI,” he announced. I was happy to be moving somewhere, but suddenly, thoughts of what this MRI entailed just took over. What had successfully been pushed to the back of my mind was now forcing its way to the front, and ripples of trepidation moved through my stomach. 

As I approached the MRI waiting area, colour and patterns were replaced by a bright white starkness that made the place feel like a futuristic, experimental, forbidden place. It was eerily sterile and filled me with discomfort that churned like disconcerting waves in the pit of my stomach. A man in a white uniform came to greet me and check my name and date of birth and asked me to fill in a simple form. Then I had to remove all my jewellery. 

  “So this will take about 30-40 minutes,” he began. 

“Oh, THAT long. I thought it would be more like 20,” I responded with dismay, desperate to be in and out as quickly as possible. He proceeded to explain the process and try to put my mind at ease. 

“No, a little longer than that. We will take six scans, the longest being three minutes. We just need you to be as still as possible. I will explain more when we get in there,” he said. 

When I entered the room, the clean brilliant white bounced off the walls. In the centre was the huge cylindrical machine, with a central tunnel that runs through the middle. Around the circular opening, there were pale blue lights that glowed softly against the clinical whiteness. I was then instructed to lie on the motorised bed that would slide into the machine. I lay down on the hard, narrow bed, staring up at the nurse’s face, waiting for my next instructions. He explained that he was going to insert a cannula into my vein which I now understood would be for a dye that would get injected into my blood at some point. He then handed me some earplugs and headphones, but I questioned if I needed both, concerned more about the muffled sensation from these ear protectors than the loud banging noise I’d been warned of. 

“Yes, I’d advise putting the headphones on; it’s very loud, so they will help,” the nurse said. So, I did as he instructed, carefully raising my head to adjust the bulky headphones which were uncomfortable and cumbersome. Then he handed me a panic button. 

“If you need us for anything, or there’s a problem, just squeeze on this buzzer and we will come in,” he said reassuringly. I felt as though I was in safe hands, but the alien environment — the white, sterile room and the tunnel that I was now being fed into — was disconcerting. It was the fear of the unknown; those seconds of trepidation before something happens. Then I was in, and the noises started — a mechanical symphony of clangs, thuds, and sharp, staccato bursts. The sounds vibrate through you, but with the headphones on, the noise was bearable. There is no pain, only patience. It’s a surrender to magnets and frequencies that peer deeper than sight. You are both there and not there — a quiet passenger while your body is translated into images and data. Halfway through, I felt the dye rush through my body — another heatwave that made me wonder if I was wetting myself. But it passed quickly. 

After about 25 minutes the machine exhaled, the noise died, and the bed slid back into the light. Relieved it was over, I warmly thanked the nurse and was greeted by the porter who was waiting to wheel me back to the ward. 

“So how was it?” he asked. 

“Ohh, it wasn't too bad really. Actually, it wasn't as loud as I imagined. I'm just hoping I can go home later. I still can't believe I'm here. It's strange for me, being wheeled around like this. I'm usually so active, in fact, I hate sitting down. So on Sunday, just out of the blue...” I began to chat openly and freely to this amiable porter, and before he could ask any questions, I'd given him quite a commentary about my lifestyle and my sudden seizure on Sunday. I love conversation; I like breaking through the walls of unfamiliarity. So I spoke to this porter with ease, seeing him not as a stranger, but another person who was part of this unexpected journey I was now on. 

“Yes, it's strange, isn't it, how things can change so quickly? You never know, do you? What's around the corner? I'm sure you're going to be fine,” he said reassuringly. In a few moments we arrived back on the ward. 

“Ohh, thank you so much. Yes, hopefully, everything will be fine and I'll be back in my own bed tonight. You've been lovely, thank you so much,” I said warmly, wanting him to leave knowing that he'd made me feel just a little bit brighter. That's always been my joy — making people feel comfortable: give them your time, lend them your ear, open up a space, perhaps just through small talk, so they can be themselves. In the mundanity of life, I see people come to life when you do this; just talk to them, say something, acknowledge their presence. That’s why I’m glad I spoke to the porter before he left to collect another patient. 

When I got back to the ward, I climbed back under the thin cotton bed sheets and waited. Mum, Dad and Jake were there too, huddled around the bed on uncomfortable chairs. It was just a few hours of mindless chat, trips back and forth to the toilet, and Dad clocking up his step-count with walks to the shop downstairs to keep my mum supplied with endless cups of takeaway tea. It didn't matter where Mum was, she was comfortable and content if she had a cup of tea in her hand. The thing that made me smile most was the little plastic food bag that she pulled from her handbag, stuffed with...tea bags! I watched with curiosity as my mum dunked one of these tea bags into the tea that Dad had just brought her. 

“Mum, why have you put one of your own tea bags in that tea?” I asked with bemusement. 

“Ohh, because it's not strong enough. It’s never strong enough,” she explained firmly. 

I looked at Dad as if asking for further explanation. He was unperturbed. 

“She always does this,” he nonchalantly added, clearly very accustomed to Mum’s quirks around the strength of her tea and the personal back-up supply she carried around in her handbag. 

“That's so funny,” I responded with a smile. The funniest thing was how crumpled those teabags were. 

It was 5:00 p.m. when the same three doctors from earlier appeared at the foot of my bed. One of them started to close the curtains around my cubicle. The way she did that felt foreboding. My parents were standing at the side of these three doctors, facing me. Jake was sat in the chair next to my bed, my right hand folded in both of his hands. We held eye contact for a second or two and then turned back to the serious-looking three doctors. 

Suddenly, I began to shake uncontrollably. The main doctor who had spoken to me earlier that morning looked as though he had some bad news to announce. In those moments before he spoke, there was an unbearable tension and unspeakable fear that was bouncing like a pinball between me, Jake, Dad and Mum. 

“We’ve reviewed your MRI. What we've found is, it's a tumour,” the doctor said. 

Suddenly we entered a vacuum where no words could be exchanged. There was just a cold silence at this shocking news as it tried to find a place to land. This short, two-syllabic word towered over us; none of us could look it in the eyes. Instead, I looked at my dad, as if I was depending on him having all the answers. A few desperately uncomfortable minutes passed before my dad turned to the doctor. 

“Is it malignant?” he asked. 

“We think so,” the doctor replied. I felt Jake's hands squeeze mine — a signal of reassurance and comfort. Malignant. Despite knowing the meaning of this word, like a pebble that skipped across water, it did not sink in. Instead, it rippled and vanished before meaning could take root. 

Fighting against the shock that almost silenced him, my dad found the courage to ask another question. 

“Can they operate?” he asked quietly and gingerly, visibly afraid of the truth. 

“It's in the right temporal lobe, and yes, it looks operable,” the doctor replied. It was at this exact moment that something quivered beneath the surface of Dad’s composed expression and, like a dam giving way to the news which had just hit us all, a few tears slipped free. Trying to hold it together, Dad found something positive to say, desperate to soften the blow we had been dealt. 

“Well, that's good that they can operate” he quietly replied. 

Malignant – I think there was another, more terrifying word for that, but it had not been spoken. The word hovered over me, but I would not let it penetrate my thoughts; I somehow rejected it because it crashed into my world like an asteroid — I just didn’t have time to react. My body told me I was fine, my head told me I was OK, but this doctor just told me I had a brain tumour and a possibility it was malignant. 

I turned to Jake. 

“So does that mean... I mean, are they saying... have I got... is it...” my words trailed off. 

I couldn’t say it; that ‘C’ word was too big to say. Even just the sound of it harboured so much terror — its powers of destruction and devastation no secret. Instead, I let the word enter my mind and plague my thoughts. 

I think that’s what this is... oh no, it just can’t be. I think I’ve just been told I’ve got...cancer. 

Suddenly, life just split into a before and after. 

*Some names have been anonymised