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high in a clear sky. Spring, which in Chicago can come as late as May or not at all, had arrived in April that year, and the young pear trees and azalea bushes were bursting with flowers. A good number of people were already outside, watering tulip beds and tending dutifully to their small city yards.
    I’d chosen to go to the MRI on my own. The hospital’s confirmation letter didn’t mention bringing a support person, and I didn’t see any reason for both Bill and me to spend the morning inside.
    â€œIt’s a good thing I’m not getting an MRI,” Bill said, kissing me goodbye before I left. “I’d freak out in that thing.”
    A doctor friend had told us at dinner the night before that some people had to stop the test and be sedated in order to proceed. I tried not to think about it as I parked in the hospital’s lot and followed signs to Radiology. I had never been to a hospital for any outpatient procedure. I felt odd walking through the sliding doors feeling healthy. I had always thought of the whole hospital as the ER—full of crisis and fear.
    Taking an early-morning appointment boded well for being seen on time.
    I came prepared anyway; I’d brought a book, my journal, and my iPod, onto which I’d downloaded a variety of guided meditations.
    I signed in at the front desk with the receptionist, a plump, gray-haired woman named Gladys who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck. She handed me some forms and a waiver absolving the hospital of any responsibility if I experienced any ill effects from the
procedure. Trying not to picture any of the catastrophic outcomes, I scanned the form quickly, not fully reading. I would come to loathe these forms. If I really allowed myself to think about any of the outcomes as actual possibilities, I never would have gone through any of the medical procedures I ended up subjecting myself to.
    I took a seat, leaned my head back against the wall, and started one of the meditation sequences I found especially useful for combating anxiety. I had drifted just to the edge of sleep when someone shook my arm. A blond, pleasant-faced man in blue hospital scrubs apologized for waking me and introduced himself as Sam, the technician who would be administering my MRI.
    Sam looked fit and outdoorsy. I imagined him running marathons and mountain climbing on his days off. He pointed me toward a set of wide swinging doors and told me the MRI team would take good care of me. As he walked me to the procedure room, he briefed me on the test, saying that they would give me an injection of radioactive dye and then insert me in the MRI tube for thirty to forty-five minutes.
    â€œThe machine will be very loud at some points,” Sam said. “That’s the part that really gets to people.” I asked if people had to be sedated, as I’d heard. “Sometimes,” he said. “You look pretty tough, though. I think you’ll do great.”
    When we got into the room, I sized up the machine—a sleek, colossal thing—and hoped Sam was right. It was larger than I had envisioned, the size of a small bus, filling the room. Sam told me I couldn’t have my iPod with me during the test, and I felt confident I could meditate without props, even in an MRI tunnel. The only thing that concerned me was the injection.
    â€œIt’s pretty neat, actually,” Sam said, showing me the needle up close once I was lying flat on the table. “We inject the dye right into your vein . . . ” He waved to another technician, standing in a
control booth. “The dye will move through your body and will show us what’s going on in your brain.”
    It didn’t sound neat to me, and I immediately wished I had asked Bill to come. The needle looked alarmingly long and the dye looked toxic, dark and slick, like tanker oil. Sam twisted a rubber band around the upper part of my arm and deftly inserted the needle into my vein. I