“Swee-eeet LOVE!” Anita Baker croons in my ear.

Chunka chunka chunka chunka BLEEEEEE

“Don’t you ever go away, it’ll always be this way. Swee-eeet LOVE!”

Zaaaaaayyyaa Zaaaaaaaayyyyaa Zaaaaaaaaaaaaaay

“Swee-eeet LOVE! Hear me calling out your name—I feel no shame.”

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Rrrrrrrrrrrrr Rrrrrrrrrrrr THUNK

Can you keep it down, MRI machine?! I can’t hear my Anita. I love this one.

[as if to spite me] Huddah Huddah Huddah Huddah PINNNNNGGG

I’d told the attendant before they slid me into the MRI tube that I wanted R&B music on my headphones. I thought it would be comforting to hear some D’Angelo while the gigantic magnet probed my groin. Maybe some Barry White.

I’m here for a followup MRI, to see if the spots on my prostate have changed since last June. That’s when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, but the best kind: Gleason 3 + 3, which lets my doctor put me under “active surveillance.”

The attendant said I’d be in here for 25 to 30 minutes, and at some point they’ll shoot cold stuff into the IV in my arm, just for fun. It already feels like two days, and we’ve only had three songs so far.

I can’t tell if this next song is Sade because of all the goddamn noise. I think it is. Yup. There’s the chorus. “You gave me the kiss of life.” I mean, the audio quality is no better than a tin can on a string, but at least it distracts me from the blasting techno beats coming from the machine.

I always forget just how tight the fit is in these things. If my nose were an inch bigger, it would have hit the ceiling. And I can’t relax my right arm, partly because it’s holding the emergency “get me out of here!” button, but mainly because there’s no room on that side for me to lay my arm flat. What do they do with really big people? Is there another machine for the girthy?

I’m not claustrophobic, and I don’t mind IVs or needles. What I do mind is butt stuff, and that part is in the rear-view mirror. You have to self-administer an enema before you drive to the MRI place, and believe me you better do it way before it’s time to get in the car. The last thing you want is leftover enema juice begging to come out as you’re sitting at a stop light.

I’ve been dreading that enema since I found out about this MRI two weeks ago. My sexual partners learned one thing about me very early in our relationships: no touching down there. I don’t like it. Not you. Not me. No one. Move on please.

Well there’s no avoiding the butt when it’s time for your enema. That’s kind of the point. You go in your bedroom and lock the door. You pull the shades and turn off the lights. (No, this is not the time for Barry White.) You get undressed. Yes, you have to take off your shirt and socks too, not just your pants and underwear, because there might be an accident. You never know.

You lay an old towel on the bed and then you get on it, turned on your left side with your knees pulled up to your chest. Then you take the cap off the enema bottle, and the tip is all lubey. Simply insert—

I can’t relive it. Imagine the rest.

Let’s go back to the MRI room, where all this enema stuff is happily over. After “Rock with You” from Michael Jackson, a song by an unidentified guy—Usher? Babyface?—and then a reprise of “Sweet Love,” I start to fall asleep. I semi-dream about riding an escalator down into the Metro. Goodbye daylight up top. Waiting for the train. Looking down the dark tunnel. What stop is this? Where am I going?

“Mr. Keane, you’re doing great. We’ll start the contrast now,” says the attendant in my headphones.

I wait for the chill to trickle into my vein. Not yet. Not yet. There it is, I feel it. That’s a good sign because the contrast portion is the last stage of this ordeal. That means we’ll be done soon.

Another few minutes of cacophony (I never did get any Barry White), and then they hit the button and the sliding bed pulls me out of the MRI machine. Back into the light.

“You can get up now,” the attendant says.

“Can I?” Reflex response. A joker with medical people, just like my dad.

I’m so stiff. I think my left knee is locked up. The attendant offers me his gloved right hand. I grip it and pull myself upright. He removes the IV from my arm, wraps that spot with red tape, and tells me I’m free to go.

Free to go. Music to my ears. Free to wait—what, one day? five days?—for the radiologist to interpret my results. Then wait some more for my urologist to call and give me the good news or the bad news.

Good news scenario: “Chris, no change on the MRI. We’re clear to wait another 6 months. See you in December. Enjoy your summer.”

Bad news scenario: “Mr. Keane, we’re seeing some growth in the two spots from the previous MRI. I believe it’s time to end the active surveillance and begin treatment as soon as possible. Please call the office to schedule your surgery.”

I have no idea what happens next.

Well, that’s not true. I do know what’s next: I’m headed to Krispy Kreme for my one jelly filled, one creme filled, and an apple-cinnamon filled to save for later.