What they don’t tell you is that you will be cold. You will be cold when you go into the room, dressed in their spare scrub pants. You will be cold, there in your bare feet and your lavender shirt, which clashes with their spare scrub pants. They are blue. Like your toes, because you are cold and they didn’t tell you.
They didn’t tell you that you would have to take off your rings, until you got into a small, but stylish room. So you walk in, naked fingered cradling your arms close to your chest, which is without a bra. Another thing they could have told you.
What they don’t tell you is how the earplugs create the sense of drowning in a silent sea of air. That they fill your entire ear, where their voices over the loudspeaker sound like a lover’s whisper. They don’t tell you that you will count the minutes until you hear the tinny crackle of them asking if you are ok. They don’t tell you that.
They don’t tell you, that you will immediately feel as though you’ve been swaddled into your casket; as the machine moves you inch by jerky inch. They don’t tell you to never open your eyes. Do not make the mistake of being present. They don’t tell you, that if you open your eyes while encompassed in the machine, that you will feel all of the edges of the universe fall in on you.
They don’t tell you that you will squeeze your eyes closed tight and breathe in long, deep breaths to calm your heart. They don’t tell you that it will remind you of being held down. They will not tell you that you will skate along the fine line of succumbing to panic. They won’t tell you that all of the feelings you have successfully shoved down, will remain raw and open and scary. They don’t tell you that you will not be able to move.
They do not tell you, that while the disturbingly loud sounds medicinalia clack and beep and growl around you, you will cry. They do not tell you that they will be the silent, constant riverflow of tears that run hot and salty from the corner of your eyes. They do not tell you that those tears will collect around the hair at the nape of your neck. They don’t tell you that you will push through it and cry silently.
They don’t tell you that they will move you out of your sarcophagus long enough to inject you with dye that bruises you, because your veins are small. They don’t tell you that you will joke with them about making sure to tell you, if they find your brain in the scan. They won’t tell you that they will ignore your tear stained face, but they do.
These things happen, and they are what they don’t tell you.