After an initial appointment with my family doctor, I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar office, explaining my symptoms to a neurologist. Completely stumped, he concluded, “Well, the first thing we’ll have to do is get in there and see what’s going on. I’m going to order and MRI of the brain. Are you claustrophobic?”
A brain scan was not what I was expecting.
I listened as intently as possible while he rattled off the details of the procedure, asking numerous times if I was claustrophobic and whether I was allergic to contrast dye, and telling me I couldn’t wear anything metal during the scan.
He held up a plastic model of the brain and explained possible diagnoses, none of which sounded pleasant.
Upon leaving his office with a brain scan scheduled for the following week, I did what any rational person would do: I went to the nearest food court and sat by myself with eight pieces of salmon avocado California rolls, chased by a chai latte from Panera. Because sushi and chai can calm any situation.
Then the waiting began.
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