As I
walk into the 5x5 room, harsh fluorescent lights blind and cause my spine to
tighten up like a rattle-snake whose sleep was disturbed. White walls with the
fingerprints and shoe scuffs of previous patients jump out and scream
the depressing reality of the MRI center. Behind the secretary’s make shift
desk attached to a wall divider hangs a gallery of gaudy, 1930s prints of vases
holding flowers and water pitchers. Colored primarily with pinks, purples, and
gold, they look like pictures my great grandmother would hang over the toilet
of her hall bathroom. I suppose they pair nicely with the green rug that holds
hints of pink, blue, and purple—lovely combination. It looks as though a gay pride
parade marched right through and threw their glitter in all directions. Of
course, this ensemble of a waiting room would not be complete without the
traditional, in your face, “look how amazing we are,” framed accomplishments of
the office. Newspaper clippings from 2001, certificates of recognition from the
80s, a doctorate from 1991 line the wall across from the main line of $10
chairs seen at Big Lots, staring the next victim of the MRI machine in the
face.
We've all been in a waiting room, and they all look pretty similar. The sarcastic tone that leaks in says that pretty blatantly--given that, I'd cut back. I'd say a thing or two about the waiting room, if you really desperately want to, let a tad bit of sarcasm in, then move on. That way, the sarcasm tells us it's just like every other one, and you don't get sucked in the details you have now: the colors are repetitive, it all looks old, and I need something more than a rattle snake to describe your emotions because I'm not sure how a snake reacts to disturbed sleep, ya know?
ReplyDeleteRather, start off in the MRI machine. I've been in one, but most people haven't. On TV they look like you're in a space ship or something (or, at least, the way TV tells us space ship looks like...) but mine was less glamorous than that. Describe that--because it's more unique and MUCH more difficult to describe. There is no color, no ugly patterns. Likening that to your grandmother's hall bathroom is *much* more interesting, don't you think?
Obviously, we need more: why are you there? What are they testing? What were the results? What else is going on in your life? What are you thinking about while you're in the tube? Throw in a few normal ones with a few really off-the-wall thoughts.
And then, what does this become? Is it something you wish you could do more often? Maybe you're so tired of running around after a baby that those few minutes where you literally aren't allowed to move feel like relief? Maybe this immobility can be juxtaposed with a (unique) description of your job or your time at home with a baby/school work/husband? Were you as afraid as I was (granted, I was like 8) that if I moved something awful would happen to me?