MRI Claustrophobia and Characters Who Won’t Behave

I had an MRI this week. Or rather, I attempted to have an MRI. There is a difference.

This was meant to be part of the preparation for next week’s gall bladder removal, which sounds delightfully simple until someone slides you into a metal tube and the ceiling is five centimeters from your nose. My brain took one look at that arrangement and filed an immediate objection. Let me tell you, MRI claustrophobia is a thing.

I thought I’d be fine. I was not fine. I lasted about as long as a chocolate biscuit near a cup of tea.

It’s funny how we think we know ourselves until some perfectly ordinary medical procedure proves otherwise. I don’t mind needles. I don’t mind scans. I can cope with waiting rooms, forms, and the strange hospital fashion statement known as “please wear this gown and surrender all dignity.”

But not this time. The claustrophobia manifested immediately.

Yes, it was embarrassing. I’ve had an MRI before, one which did a brain scan. You can read all about that in my article “I never, ever want to do that again”.  But that time a had a mask over my face. And you see, this time I didn’t expect to have my whole body slid into the round coffin for images of my abdomen. That, and the memory of the previous experience had the anxiety galloping.

When I go in for try number two, I’ll have a couple of sedatives with me. I’m sure that will get me over the line. So next Friday I’ll be off to have the gall bladder evicted. I’m hoping for a straightforward procedure, a quick recovery, and no more intimate encounters with metal tubes. In the meantime, I’ll be allowing nurse Peter to look after me. If he’s a good boy, I’ll give him a pay rise. Maybe 15%.

And – halleluiah – I’ll be able to eat cheese again. And bacon. Maybe even some ice cream. Yes folks, I can hardly wait.

That brings me, oddly enough, to writing.

Stories have their own metal tubes. You think you know where you’re going, then the characters take one look at the plan and say, “Nope. Not happening.”

At the moment I’m back with Morgan and Ravindra, who are alarmingly close to real people in my head. That’s lovely when they’re being charming. It’s less lovely when I need them to have a straightforward conversation and they fold their arms, stare at me, and refuse to say the line I’ve carefully prepared.

The annoying part is that they’re usually right.

Morgan won’t be sentimental just because I want a tender moment. Ravindra won’t spill his feelings neatly over a cup of mulled wine because it would be convenient. They’ve both survived too much for that. If I try to force them, the scene goes flat, and I can almost hear them muttering in the corner.

So I listen. Grudgingly, of course. I am the author. I’m supposed to be in charge.

Stop laughing.

The joy of writing familiar characters is that they push back. They make the story harder, but better. When they finally do speak, it sounds like them, not like me dragging them through the plot by the ankles.

And after this week, I sympathise. Sometimes the body refuses the MRI tube. Sometimes Morgan and Ravindra refuse the scene.

In both cases, there’s not much point arguing.

And here’s a pretty picture to round out the week.