Moments of Relative Idleness

March Ski in Davos

I had my first MRI just over a week ago, it wasn't easy to get an appointment  when I came back from the curtailed ski trip, the GP thought the knee was fine, but I needed a letter for the MRI. Absentee Boyfriend Bond thought it was a bit of a drama. A week later when I walked into the clinic  I even felt I should hobble a bit to justify the visit.

I was strapped to a bed in a room full of high-tech lights and equipment. The kind of bed, like a bier that glides into a tomb-like chamber I've only ever seen on ER or Grey's Anatomy. Happily I could keep my head outside as it was just the knee being scanned. The technician asked me what radio station I'd like, I didn't think Joe Duffy would relax me, sorry Joe, so he put on Lyric FM and placed the ear phones on my head, as the strains of a violin concerto filtered through my ears, I daren't move an acrylic eyelash.

MRI, Moments of Relative Idleness, or something like that, I could Google it, but it was a procedure that must be incredibly terrifying if you are going for a brain scan. My reverie came to abrupt end after twelve minutes and the music is interrupted by the technician telling me its all over. I hobbled out and forgot all about it.

I registered to do the Women's Mini Marathon for the Rape Crisis Centre in June and do a ride at Donard Glen this weekend for M.S.

The GP phoned me with the report, he sounded as surprised as I was, and probably glad he had agreed I get it checked.

'No activity for three months unless you want orthopaedic surgery' or something to that effect. I had a full depth tear to the medial ligament and a few other older injuries unnoticed before.

'What about riding?' I ask.
'Out of the question,' says he, 'the best thing you can do is rest it and wear a brace for a while.'

And that's just a ligament, what must our rugby players go through with their serial injuries in the name of sport and our entertainment. Respect.

So I can't swim with it, and my usual sprint up and downstairs is off limits, otherwise I think I got away lightly. Like the moment a few months ago when I got the news from the breast cancer re-call, the fear and dread was palpable, sitting and waiting, not having thought of bringing someone with me. And then a grave face tells me it's all clear, spontaneous combustion of tear ducts is an understatement. The aftermath of that news can only be described as a second chance at life. I drove into town for lunch after the mammogram and was given three driving offences, for one little manoeuvre. That garda didn't seem to understand I had a second chance at life.