Just Write: MRI
The medications they've given me have caused restless legs. And knocked me out.
I hear the MRI tech over the loudspeaker deep inside this metal tube I'm stuck in.
"You have to hold still. You're moving your legs."
I'm roused from my sound sleep. "Mmmmmm?"
"You need to hold still."
I have no words beyond that single letter.
Pleasing. That's normally me. Today, I'm sick. And medicated.
I immediately drift off to wherever medicated minds drift.
I return back to the tube occasionally.
I feel the cold walls of the machine tightly holding my arms in place like a mummy.
I hope no one steals my necklace I hid on my bed.
The machine loudly whirs and clicks. I don't care. Thank God for medication because this would normally freak me out.
Today, I dream through the entire thing. Dreams that escape me now, but I know I dreamed.
Test over, I have to wake up and stand to get into the bed.
Is my hair a mess?
Even completely stoned by this medication, the nurse in me never sleeps.
I stumble to the bed and I think, "Why has no one made me a risk for falls? Why do I not have a yellow bracelet on? Shame on them."
If I were more awake I'd question it.
If it were my staff, I'd teach them.
But I'm not and they're not. So I carefully climb back into my bed and sleep all the way back to my room.
This was written to connect with the Just Write project from The Extraordinary Ordinary