Finding Magnetic North

 

Another day, another dollar, and another appointment inside the magnetic torture chamber. Baylor Scott & White’s MRI division runs like a cold, efficient cartel—get you in early, process you without mercy, and spit you back out into the daylight before you’ve had time to question your life choices.

This particular expedition was ordered to confirm that my prostate was not harboring that rat bastard charlie—the rogue menace who was freelancing in my eye. While that eviction was successful, my oncologist seems confident the prostate isn’t the crime scene, but the PET scan whispered otherwise, and in this line of work, you don’t ignore whispers. So the order came down: Prostate-Specific MRI. Capital letters. No negotiation.

After check-in, I was escorted into the usual ritual of dignity surrender—strip down and suit up. But this time? Two gowns. Not one. Two. Front and back. A full defensive perimeter. Apparently, word has spread about previous incidents involving wardrobe failure and an unsolicited display of the rear provinces. I couldn’t quite wrangle the rear ties into submission, but the front held strong. Decorum preserved. Civilization intact.

Then came the machine.

Longest. Loudest. MRI. Ever.

This wasn’t medical imaging—it was a full-scale mechanical uprising. Metallic shrieks, jackhammer rhythms, some kind of coded transmission to hostile dimensions. They knew it too—handed me earplugs like a survival kit. I accepted without hesitation. They did their job, but sleep? Not a chance. In hindsight, I should’ve taken the headphones and the promise of classic country—maybe let some outlaw ballads carry me through the storm instead of raw industrial chaos.

Still, I’ll give credit where it’s due—the staff was sharp, attentive, almost unnervingly kind. Check-in was fast, the whole operation smooth and professional, like they’ve done this a thousand times and still haven’t lost their grip on humanity.

Now comes the waiting. The long, twitchy pause while the results crawl through the system, deciding what kind of story comes next.

And as always—

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler