The hospital garb was laid out for me in the changing room like jammies provided by a low budget, medical-themed hotel. I changed from my street clothes into the enormous cotton pants and gown, putting on the no-slip socks before stowing my personal belongings into the locker and removing the key.

I was feeling a little anxious as I shuffled out of the room to the waiting area, distracted by yards of material swallowing my entire body three times over, catching on my feet and slipping from my shoulders.

I was there for an MRI, a “just to make sure we've covered all of the bases” thing in a year filled with tests and scans and blood work and a host of other pokes and prods and scopes as my doctors try to unravel the mystery of why I'm losing weight. We've ruled out a bunch of terrifying things and have narrowed it down to some less terrifying things, exacerbated by a hefty side dose of stress. My doctors - all of them - are caring medical professionals who take me seriously and take good care of me. If this test is clear, there are still things we need to check. But they get less and less concerning as we tick possibilities off the list.

My anxiety today wasn't about the test results. It was about the actual test.

* * * * * * * * *

Years ago, I had a reaction to CT contrast dye. I've had two MRIs since then, one on my head and one on my neck. One had dye, the other did not, and as far as I know, I had no problem with the MRI dye. Before ordering this, my doctor did a thorough search of my records to make sure of that.

I also remember needing a sedative for the MRI on my head more than 20 years ago (and still having a total meltdown). The MRI on my neck, just a few years ago, doesn't even register in my memory bank. Either it was that uneventful or I had drugs and simply forgot the entire experience.

Today's MRI was for my abdomen. When my doctor asked if I wanted sedatives, I'd said no. It's been years since I've had a panic attack. Besides, I kept picturing the CT machine I'd visited several times over the last year, a machine short in length with a very wide diameter. Only my middle section was inside the machine, and not for very long, either. I was fine for that. I'd be fine for this.

Then the imaging department called several days before the appointment to go over the instructions, and the person read, at breakneck speed, the “Do you have..” list, followed by questions about reactions to contrast dye. She was talking so fast and throwing so many words at me that, when she asked if I had any questions, I just asked, “Will my head be in the machine” and “How long is the test?” She explained that I was going into the machine feet first but my head would probably be just inside the machine so I should feel the outside behind my head. As for how long? About an hour.

She ended by mentioning that I have a history of being claustrophobic and asking if I would be taking any meds.

At this point I didn't really think I had a choice - the test was in a few days and I hadn’t requested them ahead of time - so I said, “No. I think I'll be OK.”

“OK,” she said, and we left it at that.

But I confess I was having a little bout of nerves, that day and for the rest of the days before the test. In fact, one night I woke in the middle of the night, heart racing, to find my face completely covered by my comforter. There was no going back to sleep after that so I got up for the day.

It was 4 am.

I'm going to be fine, I assured myself.

I'm going to be fine, I reminded myself, every day, and every night as I lay in bed picturing myself inside a machine.

I'm going to be fine.

And I thought I was.

Until I wasn't.

* * * * * * * * *

The first problem arose when I went to use the bathroom before the test. The cloying scent of cinnamon cleaning products hung in the air, and I could feel my throat closing the moment I walked in the room. I hurried to get out and wondered, while I sat outside the imaging room, if I had time to get my inhaler from the locker. Wait, I thought. Am I even allowed to use my inhaler before this test? I didn't know who to ask. Where's the person who brought me back here? I got up and looked around. Am I alone? My heart was already racing; would the inhaler increase my anxiety or make me feel better? Being able to breathe is less anxiety-producing than not being able to breathe, but I opted to not give my heart any more reasons to pound in my chest. I just coughed until I felt better.

The next thing that tripped me up was when the nurse asked about my past reaction to contrast dye. Apparently my chart doesn't note specifically if my reaction was to CT or MRI contrast dye, which led to a discussion about my memory of the situation, years ago, and whether I was sure - really sure - it was a CT and not an MRI. “Yes, it was a CT,” I said. “Wait, that's the test they do when you have a kidney stone, right? This is a different test, right? RIGHT?!” Just as terrifying as getting shoved into an MRI tube is the thought of having an allergic reaction while shoved inside an MRI tube.

“Yes,” she said. “That's a CT.” She then looked through my chart more closely and found a note saying the reaction was to CT contrast dye. We moved on.

“No sedatives today, right?” she asked. “Are you going to be OK?”

“No clue,” I said. “All of this talk about the allergic reaction is making me anxious.” I paused. “I have some xanax at home. I wish I'd brought that.”

“You should have,” she said, and we laughed as I thought, Bugger. I didn’t know that was a last minute option.

Just keep breathing.

I used the bathroom, one last time.

In the MRI room, the tech got me situated and explained what was about to happen, assuring me he suffers from the same anxieties and completely understood what I was feeling. He also let me know that the test, which I was told would last an hour, would probably only last about half an hour. I felt relief; I could do this for half an hour.

I can do this for half an hour.

That's what I told myself as I walked into the room, without my glasses, everything blurry, although I could make out the giant machine with the tiny hole.

That's what I told myself when I asked if I could use the bathroom just one more time. (Different bathroom, same cinnamon scent.)

That's what I told myself as the tech re-situated my pillows and inserted my ear plugs.

That's what I told myself as I felt my neck squashed into a pillow, bulky headphones replacing the ear plugs.

I can do this for half an hour.

That's what I told myself as the tech laid a large imaging plate over my chest.

That's what I told myself as I was slowly fed into the tube.

That's what I told myself as I asked the tech to stop, just for a second.

That's what I told myself as we tried again, and I felt my arms rubbing on the sides of the machine as I was slid like a loaf of bread into an oven.

That's what I tried to tell myself - honest, I tried - as the tech said we were about to start and asked if I was ready, and I could feel my eyelids fluttering and I switched my mantra to “Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes, DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES...” before calling “I'm not OK! I need to get out!!”

I started crying and apologizing the minute my head was out of the machine, and at that moment it hit me that if they did find something on this scan I'd probably have to do this all over again.

And that's when I completely and utterly unraveled, in quite spectacular fashion.

“This happens far more often than you might think,” the tech told me kindly as I gasped for breath between sobs. “Meds will help.” He suggested that when I reschedule I ask for an appointment in a wide bore machine. He explained that they use the wider machines for MRIs of the head and for neurological, so it might take a little longer to get an appointment. “If you had the meds,” he told me, “I think you'd be OK in the regular machine.”

“I'm not taking any chances,” I said through tears. “I need both.”

As soon as I got home, the scheduling department called to set up a new appointment, assuring me, again, that this happens all the time and it was not a problem to schedule with the wider machine. The appointment is in a few weeks.

I messaged the GI doctor who ordered the test to explain why I didn't follow through, and asked for meds for the next attempt.

I cleaned myself up and met a friend for coffee, where we talked about art and life and teaching and other meaningful things, and I cried and she listened.

I picked Beau up at doggy day care and we came home.

* * * * * * * * *

Later that night, I shared my story on Facebook, and a dozen friends told me they'd had the same experience. That made me feel better. These are smart, brave, confident women who met their match with the MRI and had to try again armed with Valium.

This was not a failure.

I'd felt like I had wasted the imaging center's time, hospital resources, and everyone's patience. But they told me a truth when they said I was not alone in my experience.

This was not a failure.

Anxiety is not a one and done situation. It rears its head for legitimate reasons, like being slid into a noisy coffin while you're hooked up by IV to a machine that will pump contrast dye into your body.

This was not a failure.

When they asked if I was going to be OK, I should have given myself the power to say, “No, I am not OK,” or even “I don't know, so how do I best prepare in case I'm not?”

Because I was not OK, and I am not OK this morning, and I may not be OK tomorrow or the next day or the day after that or the day after. (In fact, since we’re being honest here, I've not been OK for a while and on a few occasions when breathing and walking have not tackled the anxiety creeping in from the periphery, I have used the xanax.)

But that is OK. I needed to be reminded that I don't have to live quietly in the not OK, and I don't need to conquer every fear. I can face them as they arise.

In this case, give me the meds, please. All of them.

By the way, I kept the socks. I'm sure that was OK.

* * * * * * * * *

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