Scanned to Death

It looks like out airports will soon have the technology to scan our bodies as we pass through security. We're used to having the contents of our suitcases revealed. I'm always craning my neck to see the x-ray of my own luggage. On the way to Edmonton recently I was busted because of my absentmindedness:

"Did you pack your own luggage?"
"Yep.
"Did you pack a big pair of scissors in you luggage?"
"Don't think so."
She pulls a big pair of gardening scissors out of my backpack.
Oops.

And then there was the time something in my pocket set the security wand beeping and I sheepishly pulled out a foil-wrapped condom.

I watched an episode of Oprah a few years back when the technology for a full body scan became accessible to those who could afford it. Basically, it showed the wear and tear on women's aging bodies (Oprah included) in their backs and knees, but for some people who were wealthy enough to have MRI's as a part of their regular check-up it had revealed nascent diseases which were caught and treated in the early stages. Will the security man behind the curtain at the airport be able to see cancer-riddled lungs or grapefruit-sized tumors? Will she see pins, pacemakers and unborn children?

I remember when I went to have the prenatal scan. You have to drink a ton of fluids before you go, so I was feeling terribly uncomfortable. The cab driver seemed jumpy and nervous. He kept slamming on the brakes. I looked down and saw Starbucks cups littering the floor. "Cool it!" I said. "You are going to have to drive carefully because I am pregnant and I have to pee very badly." The technician was brusque, bordering on rude. When I saw the image of my son, I wanted her to bare witness to my tears of joy. "Makes it seem more real, doesn't it?" she said in a bored tone, using the same words I'm sure she repeated on a daily basis. Twins, triplets, males, females, and the shadowy sexes in between. Commonplace miracles to her.

After I gave birth I ended up having to have another scan to see why I was experiencing sharp pains days later. The technician barely acknowledged me. When I asked what he saw he said in a condescending Francophone tone, "Well, it is more a question of what we don't see--a process of elimination." And then, "You'd better discuss that with your doctor." Well, that never happened. I got better painkillers though, which was an ordeal in itself involving screaming at the student doctor on call. (I find that with the medical system a bit of screaming goes a long way, although you have to be careful not to end up in the psych ward, especially if you are a woman.)

Yesterday I was given an MRI to see if the image of my brain can explain why I continue to see zigzags and flashes of lights. I arrived at the hospital in the dark, literally stumbling around outside trying to find the entrance to the Purdy Pavillion. It was so early in the morning I felt like I was in a science fiction movie, following directions from signs on the walls to fill out the forms and change into the yellow pajamas. Finally a human arrived, a woman in a lab coat who was efficient and neutral. She reminded me to remove my bra because of the metal clasps. I read the FAQ sheet on MRI's which warned me that the process would be very noisy, "like the inside of a washing machine." Who knew? I could choose music to listen to to help me relax: country, jazz, classical, Celtic, and of course Enya. Oh joy. I chose CBC radio 2.

I was early and I got served early--this is one thing I really like about getting a morning appointment. The labbie explained that my head would be midway in the tube. I took a deep breath and crawled onto the table. Then she strapped my head into what seemed like a football helmet so it could not move. That takes getting used to. Then the head phones go over the helmet,and you are giving an emergency rubber bulb call to put in your hand if you need to tell the technician to pull you out fast. I felt like a calf in an abattoir. This is the fear they must feel, I thought, only they don't have a rubber emergency bell to call for help.

The sounds are more electronic than a washing machine and the music is a waste of time because you can't hear it anyway. The 20 minutes of photo sessions are broken down into increments--30 seconds, two minutes, 3 minutes and so on. The technician talks to you in between sessions. I calmed myself by counting, which is what I do in sticky situations. My mouth went dry. I had trouble breathing. My body became restless. My neck went into spasms. Three minutes seems like a very long time. Tears started to run down my cheeks and I felt embarrassed. Does she know I'm crying? I wondered. Finally, it was down to the last two minutes. I knew I had to buck up my courage and get on with my day. She unstrapped the helmet and I wiped my eyes. "You can go now." She patted my leg. And that was all. When I left the building dawn had broken. I headed around the corner to a coffee shop and devoured protein in the form of a a delicious breakfast sandwich grilled in their panini press.

So now my brain has had its fifteen minutes of medical fame. I doubt if this scan will tell us anything, but it will be a historical record of its uncanny landscape. It will be like a photo of the moon taken before lunar travel was a reality. We still don't know much about birth, death, the mystery of the brain, or what intents lie deep in the hearts of the people waiting in airport security in front of us, so no matter what our expectation are, the images, scans and x-rays are still subject to speculation and wonder.