Turns Out There's a Shitload of Words That Rhyme With "Outlaw"

I went to see my primary physician, Dr. Andersen. He asked me all the usual questions – how had I been, any illnesses, etc -- and we did the old “turn and cough” bit. Everything looked pretty good though he did want me to get a colonoscopy soon due to my family history. Fine. Then I mentioned the vision thing. He didn’t offer any conclusions or ideas about what could be causing it. He had me look left and right a few times, asked if I’d had headaches or dizziness, then paused for a moment and thought to himself.


He asked what I was doing that afternoon. Did I have time for a quick MRI?

A couple hours later I was in a medical imaging facility in a strip mall. With the flat screen TVs, tasteful tile and coffee bar it felt more like an upscale salon than the place where they scanned you for all sorts of tumors, growths and other malignancies.

After about five minutes, my name was called and I was led to a little wall of lockers. I was instructed to remove my glasses, watch, and all other metal objects. I put my stuff in a locker and walked into the MRI room. I was greeted by a massive white machine with a donut-shaped hole in the center. In front of the hole was a long, rather narrow extension that served as a bed. Had I known this was going to be the largest MRI I’d ever get to experience I would’ve taken a mental note to enjoy myself more.

The attendant produced a mesh hockey goalie-type mask and some earphones. She put the earphones on me and attached the mask to the bed. She said the procedure would take about 15 minutes and asked if I had a musical preference. I said I didn’t really care. I was treated to 15 minutes of new country. Another mistake I would not make again. Or so I thought.


She left the room and I slowly slid into the MRI. I couldn’t see much through the mask and couldn’t move my head. I’ve never really had problems with claustrophobia and this didn’t really change that. But I could see how someone who was uncomfortable in tight or small places could have a hard time. I tried to relax and settle in.

The machine clicked and whirred. There was no discernible rhythm or pattern to it, but it wasn’t annoying and the music masked most of the sound. I tried to stay still and concentrate on Indian Outlaws and life on the Chatahoochee.

Then, I was done. I felt fine. I asked the attendant if she saw anything and she said she couldn’t really comment on the MRI. That was the doctor’s job. Fair enough.

Not thinking much of it, I went back to work. I mean, really, what are the odds that I’d get a brain tumor? Only people in melodramatic Lifetime movies on Saturday afternoons get brain cancer. Colon cancer was another story. Considering all the other health issues I’d inheirited from my father (allergies, asthma, etc) I figured that was pretty much a given. But a brain tumor? My dad was associated with the other end of the body.

Onetwothreefour

It started in the car.

When I’d look over my shoulder to change lanes I’d have trouble actually seeing what was going on for a second. It was as if there were two images and my eyes had to adjust – sort of like a Viewmaster the first time you try it. There would be two independent images at first, and then they'd slowly coalesce into one. I only noticed this phenomenon when I looked to the far left or right. When I looked straight ahead, whether I was driving or standing still, everything was fine. I chalked it up to the new glasses. We had a vision plan that I hadn’t taken full advantage of at work and I figured I could use a new pair. I’d gotten them a few months earlier. Oh well.

Except it didn’t get better. It was starting to get irritating. I finally mentioned it to Amy, a co-worker. “You better get that checked out,” she said. “That can be a sign of a brain tumor.”

“It’s not a tumah!” I joked in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger/Kindergarten Cop voice. I mean, come on, what're the odds of that? Only people on soap operas and cell phone users get brain tumors. I wasn't on a soap and I didn't have a cell phone. Couldn't be me.

Like most men, the only time I ever made a trip to the doctor was when something was really wrong – if it was a cold or flu or some immediate, obvious thing. I hadn’t had a physical in years. I mean, why? I was in my late 30's, ate a pretty good diet and worked out on a semi-regular basis. Why go if there isn't a problem?

But the potential for cancer was there. Two years earlier I attempted to reconnect with my biological father and over the course of our brief email exchange he'd told me about a litany of potentially heredity health issues, culminating with colon cancer, which had killed his mother. He was now battling it himself, along with pancreatic cancer.

“You really should get tested,” he had said in an email.

I blew it off, thinking I was too young to worry about any of this and that it wouldn’t happen to me.

But still, the eye thing was really getting irritating.

I made an appointment.