ONE THING WORSE

Than a dive like this is an MRI. Oh, I know, lots of people are able to handle both. Not I.

I have taken more needles out of my upper chest after dives that were less than stellar than I care to admit. As I aged, I decided it was safer to go feet first. But my best dive in history never even looked like the feller in this picture.

When my barking left leg refused to cooperate with exercise and heat, I found myself at an imaging center to get an MRI. I had been warned that it would not be fun.

When I looked at the machine, I flinched. When they put head phones on me and sent me in head first, I recoiled. I tried it with eyes closed and ear plugs in instead of bulky head phones. I was told it would take 30 minutes.

I started praying. At 3 minutes and 30 seconds, I was doing fine as the technician inquired. The loud sounds and bangs were not pleasant but I was doing ok. At 10 minutes, I had fallen asleep, and when asked how I was doing, I opened my eyes. Within one or two inches of my nose was the top of the capsule or tube I was in. Whoa. I couldn't pray hard enough or squeeze my eyes shut hard enough. I thought I was going to throw up. I squeezed the ball indicating I could take no more.

What a baby! But after 11 minutes and 28 seconds, I was toast. No successful MRI for me. I left with my tail tucking. Whatever that means. I was embarrassed. I had failed badly.

Nurse friend Lois Peach hooked me up with an MRI place where you quasi-stand or sit in big high chair (fitting for me) with head exposed to the open air. I'm scheduled for a Monday picture shoot. Wish me luck.

If I pull this one off, I may just go off the high dive. Naugh.