There comes a time in life when everything starts to fall apart — skin elasticity, muscle tone, memory, dignity... and occasionally, eyesight.
I was at a party when, out of nowhere, the world vanished. Literally. I couldn’t see a thing for a second. And then, when I could see again — it wasn’t normal vision — it was like someone had sprinkled fairy dust on everything. Sparkles, stars, sequins. Every chair looked shiny,!
"Embellishments at no cost!", I muttered.
Naturally, this episode earned me a full medical investigation buffet: blood tests, ECG, CT scan — the lot. I even managed to pen two poems in A&Ewhilst waiting there patiently!Eventually, I.was given a clean chit . Sigh.
,And just like that, I was discharged.
No ambulance.
No handsome paramedic monitoring my pulse.
But that wasn’t the end. I was told to get an MRI done — just to be sure my brain wasn’t hosting a surprise inside it!!
The day arrived. I entered the scan room minus all that is metallic... earrings, belt, pins — and lay flat on the scanner table. So far, so good.
Then came the head cage.
The radiographer gently fixed it over my face... and something snapped.
Total panic. Drama mode ON.
I began flapping my hands, muttering,
“No no no no,” and finally yelled:
"I’d rather die than go into this tunnel!"
I even threw in a passionate Marathi dialogue:
“मला भीक नको पण तुझं कुत्रं आवर!”
The Filipino nurse looked stunned. The Latvian radiographer looked like she wanted to punch me!
Not sure what baffled them more — my Marathi, my melodrama, or the fact that I was a doctor behaving like a spoilt toddler — I’ll never know.
Eventually, the kind (and mildly traumatised) radiographer pointed to the far end of the tunnel and calmly said,
“Madam, it’s open... on both sides.”
Ah. The metaphorical and literal light at the end of the tunnel.
My panic deflated faster than a balloon in a thorny country.
I took a deep breath, channelled my inner calm, and allowed the scan to proceed. And lo! It was done in a flash. All that drama for five minutes of magnetic hums and thuds.
Since that day, I’ve never ordered an MRI for a patient without asking, “Are you claustrophobic?” If they hesitate even slightly, I hand them a prescription for temazepam with the tenderness of a fellow survivor.
And now, with genuine admiration, I salute all who work in dark, cramped, windowless places — miners, rescue workers, submarine staff, MRI technicians. Brave souls, all of them.
Because sometimes, it takes a tunnel to show you the value of open spaces… and a tiny cage to remind you how big your imagination can be.
Because sometimes, it takes a tunnel to show you the value of open spaces… and a tiny cage to remind you how big your imagination can be.
There’s a quiet courage in those who choose professions that demand working in tight, unforgiving spaces. The miner who descends deep into the earth to power our cities. The cave diver who squeezes through submerged rock tunnels to rescue the stranded. The sewage worker who navigates narrow underground channels so the rest of us can live in cleanliness. The aircraft technician who crawls into wing compartments to keep passengers safe. The submarine sailor who spends months underwater in a steel tube, cut off from the sun.
And yes, the MRI technician, who patiently reassures the panicking patient while standing beside a thumping machine in a windowless chamber.
These are not glamorous jobs. They don’t come with spotlights or applause. But they require grit, patience, and an ability to find calm in claustrophobia.
To them — and to anyone who’s ever had to breathe deep and carry on in a tight spot — I offer a heartfelt salute.
May your tunnels always have light at both ends.
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