Habit tracking right now means simply keeping up. Keeping up training for the half marathon at the end of April. Keeping up doing yoga. Keeping up writing in my journal. Keeping up sending out writing pitches. Keeping up with doctors’ appointments. Last week, I had a Cardiac MRI. Specifically, according to my chart, “a multi-sequence, multiplanar magnetic resonance imaging of the chest was performed without and with intravenous gadolinium according to an angiography protocol.” It was my third cardiac MRI in the last 15 years. The necessity to have the test is one of the gifts of having Turner syndrome. (I have a dilated aorta that doctors have to keep an eye on.)

The process began with checking in to the hospital, which meant signing a ton of ominous paperwork. (Even in a very organized process, it feels strange and isolating.) I was then taken back to a changing room by the nurse who would be administering the test. I replaced my clothes with a gown that did not close in the front and scrub pants, and waited to be taken to the machine. The nurse took me into the room with a machine like a carnival ride in which you lay on your back and get fed alive the mouth of a beast or swallowed by an incredibly huge, yet extremely narrow, doughnut. Once the IV, which administers the contrast, was inserted into my hand, I chose a Sirius channel to listen to during the almost hour-long procedure. I could not immediately choose, but I eventually selected the Nora Jones channel.

I rolled into the machine, and the test began. The headphones playing Nora Jones and Geiko ads could not drown out the sound of the machine. Intermittently, I would be asked to “exhale deeply and hold my breath” by a very peaceful female voice. Eventually, the peaceful female voice would tell me it was ok to inhale. Breathing instructions happened again and again and again throughout the hour. I am not generally claustrophobic, but this experience tests that belief. The nurse checked in every 15 minutes, breaking the loud pulsing sound. 

The test ended just as I was about to squeeze the little red help ball gripped tightly in my fist. I was thirsty, dizzy, and grateful. I got dressed and headed to the car with tears in my eyes. I know the drill. I will feel better after I rest and drink water. My general achiness will subside. The weight of vigilance — whether it’s expensive heart tests, hormone therapy, or conducting an orchestra of medical specialists — is a lot. For about five minutes, I feel sorry for myself.