Inside Gigi's World

It’s raining…again. 

It feels like that’s all it ever does in New England now. I’ve started to forget what the sun and dry feet feel like. As my car keeps hydroplaning I think it probably would have been better if I had driven a boat today instead of a car but I have no boat, so here I am; my car sliding all over the place, tires screeching and me praying to Jesus to not take me now. 

The rain keeps coming. 

It comes in rhythmic patterns that makes music that is better than half the stuff that’s played on FM radio now.  Fast…slow…slow, slow…fast. My windshield wipers struggle to keep up with the metrical changes throwing the whole musical beats off which snaps me back into the time of here and now. My wipers let out a maddening screech as they scrape down the glass because there isn’t enough rain keeping it lubricated after its last passing, so I slow the speed of the wipers but now they aren’t going fast enough and I struggle to see. 

My music continues to play loudly through the car stereo system but every so often my GPS over powers the music to yell the next set of directions, “Turn left in 300 feet.”

I know where I’m going. I’ve driven this way a hundred times before, so why I have and insatiable urge to use my GPS, I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I know is the closer I should be going, in a place that is familiar, my GPS takes me further away and I don’t know what any of the buildings or roads around me are. I know where I am going, I do, I swear, so why then do I let this confounded GPS direct me towards the wrong destination? I also couldn’t tell you why. But still I let the GPS guide me in the wrong direction, one unfamiliar turn after another. Maybe its nerves? No. Maybe I am wrong about where I am supposed to end up? Also no, I called and double checked the address twice. Maybe, subconsciously, I would much rather be laying around at home reading a good book or taking a nap than driving an hour away from home…in the rain…possibly.

“Turn left in 50 feet.”

Huh? 

“Missed turn. Rerouting.”

I yell out loud, “Son of a bitch!” as I hit my steering wheel. The person in the car next to me stuck at the light is watching me like I am a lunatic. I politely smile and wave akwardly. She turns her head quickly to face the road ahead of her looking more frighten then an instant before.

I make a U-turn to turn myself back around and this sets my GPS into a frenzied fury. “Rerouting…rerouting…rerouting.”

I get annoyed and flick the GPS off. As frustrated as she is growing by me ignoring is just as frustrated as I keep growing with her for interrupting my music. Besides, she has no idea where she is going. 

The rain begins to come down fast again with drops that are the size of gumballs. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. As they hit the windshield they splash with the same voracity as a small pebble breaking the surface of a deep, placid lake. Plink. Plink. Plink. The rain comes steadier still. I wonder if I should pull over but I am already going to be late and I don’t want to risk the receptionist turing me away from my appointment. So, I drive. 

* * * * *

I enter the double-glass sliding doors. I see the window where I am supposed to check in for my appointment. There sits a receptionist behind a set of glass windows. I think to myself, in an event of an emergency, what would all of this glass accomplish? 

I am not sure what to do so I stand there wet and awkward. After what feels like twenty minutes, she looks up to find me looking at her. I wonder if she could sense my eyes on her. She slides her window open like the skilled professional window slider that she is and asks, “Name?”

I promptly response, “Angela…”

“Date of birth?”

“0-8-3-0-19…”

She bangs on her keyboard as I answer her questions. After a moment of silence, she demands in a flat voice, “Wrist.”

I look at her like I had never been asked for my wrist before. “Huh?”

She is impatient, “Wrist. Your wrist please.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I extend my arm far enough so my wrist can reach her where she places a white hospital bracelet that sports my name, date of birth, and the name I prefer to be called—Angie. I have to fight every urge I have to ask her if it is too late to change my preferred name. If I could get my witts about me and could think of something else better to be called—something like Sheba, Queen of the possums or Fanny, Princess of the…well, I guess I’m not sure what Fanny could be the princess of, now you understand my plight—I would, but I’m not so sure where my witts are right now, so Angie it is. 

She hands me a waiver clipped to a clipboard, “I need you to sign this form and give it to the MRI technician when he comes out to get you. Its your consent form for the MRI. Be sure to read it through.”

I walk over to a seat in the waiting area and begin to read the waiver which I almost never do but something about it catches my attention: “Some MRIs are done with contrast and some are done without. Your doctor has reviewed your charts and believes you are a good candidate for contrast. The contrast being used is Gadopentetate. 

Gadopentetate or GBCAs, are used for most MRIs. Blah…Blah…Blah…No known long term risk factors however there are no long term studies…Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Contains a heavy metal that can store itself in the brains, bone, skin and other tissues…Blah…Blah…Blah…The length of the time it stays in the body is unknown…blah, blah, blah…Affects pregnant women and children most. Blah. Blah. Blah.”

I know I probably shouldn’t feel so alarmed over this, especially with the amount of shit that I have ingested into my body: I lived my childhood drinking out of garden hoses, I ingest red dye 40 on a regular basis, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes…for crying out loud, I lived through the swine flu and the Covid-19 pandemic! My body is not afraid of germs or chemicals but these warnings just feel unsettling. 

I am here to check the health of my brain but they want me to inject heavy metals into it…I think not. 

I’m not signing this consent form.