Inquiring minds want to know . . .

“This is pretty – what is it?” asked the technician.

The CT scan had just concluded and she was returning the items I had removed from my pockets before I climbed aboard the machine. It seemed to be a sincere question, so I was a little confused.

“It’s an electronic key fob” I replied. Now she looked confused. “To open my car door” I continued.

“Without a key?” she asked incredulously. I was dumbfounded.

This woman had just put me through the paces on a million-dollar-plus machine that exposed me to non-trivial levels of ionizing radiation, had inserted an IV catheter into my arm, and had injected me with a contrast medium that was dangerous enough to have required me to sign a liability waiver release form. And she apparently had never come across a keyless entry device in her life, such as the one that my eleven year-old car came equipped with. The mysteries of my daily experience never cease to amaze me.

After all the high-tech devices had been returned to my pocket, including my stick of ChapStick, I was asked to wait for ten minutes. The catheter was then removed from my arm. I was then asked to wait another couple of minutes to make sure the radiologist had everything he needed. After ten more minutes I asked if I could go. I was told to wait. A few minutes after that I was asked to accompany a different technician into a room.

“The radiologist wants to make sure you’re feeling okay.”

“You mean because of the contrast injection?”

“No. Are you feeling worse today than you did yesterday?”

“I feel great. Is there a problem other than the multitude of tumors I listed on the questionnaire?”

“He wants to be sure you’re feeling okay.”

“Like I said, I feel fine. May I go now?”

And with that I was on my way to my doctor’s office to get the results.