In hindsight, though, this isn’t entirely true. I did learn a few things. I learned what it’s like to have a brain tumor.
Trying to diagnose yourself over the internet is a terrible idea. The world wide web, once a dear friend, purveyor of porn, and shopping buddy, will turn on you. And, as my friend Chad so brilliantly puts it, you will come away thinking that you have a life expectancy of three or four minutes.
Rather than asking Google all those questions rolling around in your tumor-ridden head, I found it best to write them down and direct them to your doctor. Every. Single. One. (Well, every single one that pertains to brain tumors. Don’t go asking your doctor about where you can find those naked photos of Prince Harry from Vegas. He might know, but it will just get awkward from there.)
Feel free to run around the house doing your best Arnold Schwarzeneggar impersonation, saying “It is a tumor.” Trust me: it will never get old.
Note that the brain tumor is not the sole reason behind your tendency to enter a room and forget why you went in there in the first place. If that were the case, everyone on the planet would have a brain tumor. My mother would have 17 of them.
However, the brain tumor may be the reason behind your headaches, your hormone fluctuations, and why you think that Sorority Boys was a good film.
It’s okay to be scared out of your mind.
If you are claustrophobic, getting an MRI may cause you to freak out.Calm yourself with notion that the process is similar to being inside a big front-loading washing machine. Become the dirty laundry.
You will have to remove all metal on your body. That includes body-piercings. This means that at some point after your MRI you will find yourself staring at three metal hoop earrings, and you will not, for the life of you, be able to figure out which one was in your nose and which two go in your ears.
If your pants have metal on them, you will be given hospital scrubs to wear, which are comfortable, but not really designed for big-hipped gals.
I kept asking the technician a bunch of “What ifs?” (What if he passed out, leaving me inside the machine for hours? What if the building suddenly lost power, and I was stuck inside?) After going through every unlikely scenario with me, he finally said (with a more than passing degree of exasperation) that in an emergency, I could crawl out of the machine. So remember that: if the zombie apocalypse happens while you are getting your juicy brain scanned, you can always crawl out.