Okay, so I hurt my shoulder.
How? You ask.
I’m not exactly sure, to tell you the truth.
Maybe I dove into a rushing river to save a drowning baby.
Maybe I ran into a burning building and lifted a giant armoire in order to save a drowning baby.
Maybe I slept on it wrong.
Anyway, I went to the doctor after a couple of weeks of nagging pain. He took x-rays which confirmed what we both thought: that I have bones underneath my skin.
“We need to do an MRI,” he told me.
So we scheduled the procedure and I showed up bright and early, excited about the prospect of being shoved into a tube only a quarter-of-an-inch bigger than I am.
Usually when I’m stripped down to my socks and underwear, it means I’m in for an afternoon of watching football, but this morning it’s MRI funtime!
I’m mentally prepared for the claustrophobia and unnerving loudness (I laid down the day before with my head two feet from a railroad track to get ready for the noise), but I wasn’t ready for the nurse to twist my arm sideways and jam it forcibly against my side.
“How does that feel?” she chirped.
“Really, really uncomfortable,” I winced.
“Okay,” she smiled. “Just hold it like that for 20 minutes and we’ll be good to go.”
She placed a rubber bulb in my left hand and told me to squeeze it in case of an emergency. Thirty seconds later, the bulb feel out of my grasp just as I was getting ready to squeeze (due to fact that I was uncomfortable, angry and bored).
Fourteen hours later (maybe more), I emerged and was told I could get dressed and leave.
It was the worst thing I’d ever experienced.
Until I got the bill five minutes later.