I had an MRI this morning to try once again to figure out this pancreas business. The CT and ultrasound I had a few weeks ago didn’t show anything, so at this point my doctor’s basic mentality is “Screw it, you have insurance, let’s try more tests and see what happens.” If this doesn’t show anything, the next steps are to jam a camera down my throat and then call the psychic hotline to see if they have a guess.

As a side note, this whole production has me realizing it’s a good thing I’m a software engineer and not a doctor. I’ve been in a tech lead position enough to know how to bullshit my way out of a bug report. There comes a point where you mark it as “cannot reproduce” long enough that you finally just flag it as “will fix in the next version” and hope the bug reporter has given up caring or I’ve moved on to another team. The medical equivalent of this would be for me to die and the doctor to hope my kids don’t have any issues or, if they do, that he’s moved on to another specialty by then.

Back to the MRI itself. I’m laying there on a cold slab of metal with my nuts hanging out of the bottom of my hospital gown when the nurse walks over and unceremoniously jams a needle into my arm.

“Ow, what the hell?”
“It’s for an IV.”
“Ya, I got that part. Why do I need one for an MRI?”
“The scan was ordered with contrast.”

It took her entirely too long to realize my blank stare indicated that I didn’t have a clue what that meant.

“The easiest way to explain it is that we’re going to inject some metal–”

Spoiler alert: It’s not like Wolverine. After 45 minutes of sitting in a tube looking like I was ready to be shot out into space, I basically just came home and shit out an iron ingot. I’m the lamest X-Man since Cypher.

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