On Saturday, the 2nd of May, I headed in for my small bowel. I went to the hospital for a small bowel magnetic resonance enterography (MRE). This is a type of magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scan that uses magnetic fields to take detailed pictures of the small intestine. This scan was a follow-up from my recent appointment with a registrar. If you have lived with a chronic condition for a long time, you may know that even a “routine” scan can carry a lot of mental weight.

The preparation: no metal, no gown

I arrived, filled out a sheet of safety questions, and waited. One thing I always do is dress in clothes with no metal. By wearing leggings, a wireless bra, and a top with no zips or clips, I did not need to change into a hospital gown. This makes the experience feel much less clinical and more comfortable. When the nurse fetched me, she asked me the exact same questions I’d just answered on the sheet. I know this is standard safety stuff, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling annoying.

The liquid challenge

Then came the part every patient talks about – the jugs of fluid. I had to drink a solution that usually contains mannitol or sorbitol. These are called osmotic laxatives. Their purpose is to draw water into the small bowel to “distend” or inflate it. This allows the scanner to get a clear view of the bowel wall rather than seeing it collapsed. You’re usually asked to drink 3 – 4 jugs of fluid over 45 minutes to an hour.

Unlike barium, which is a thick, chalky liquid used in X-rays, this fluid is clear. The nurse offered me cordial to help it go down, but I declined. It’s surprising how difficult it is to chug so much fluid. I was at the end of the second jug when I realised it was already coming out of my stoma. This meant the fluid had already travelled through my entire system. Since it was “all the way through,” the nurse said we could start the scan without me drinking anymore. Hooray!

The setup: front and centre

I was cannulated and taken into the room. For this scan, I lay flat on my stomach, which is known as the prone position. This position helps move the bowel loops around so the machine can get better images. My feet were secured in place to keep me perfectly still, and I was given earplugs and a headset to block out the loud thumping noises of the machine.

They also gave me an emergency alert device. It was not a button, but a pneumatic bulb: an air-filled rubber ball. If you squeeze it, a puff of air travels through a tube to trigger an alarm for the staff. I also had a pillow to rest my head/chin on. Thankfully, my head was just poking out of the end of the machine: being able to see the room makes the experience much less claustrophobic!

The breathe and hold dance

The scan involves a lot of instructions through the headset: “breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, and hold.” These breath-holds are vital because any movement can blur the images. Taking a deep breath also helps create more space in the abdomen for a clearer view.

Next, the contrast went in through the cannula. They use a dye called gadolinium to highlight blood flow and inflammation. They also injected Buscopan, which is an anti-spasmodic medication. Its purpose is to temporarily stop the natural churning of your bowel so the images stay sharp. A common side effect (1 in 10 people) of Buscopan is that it makes your eyesight go very blurry. This happens because the muscles of the eyes relax, impacting focusing ability. I regained my full eyesight after a few hours.

The great bladder panic

Between the two jugs of fluid, the pressure of lying on my front, and the Buscopan, I became absolutely desperate to pee. I have a diagnosis of bladder muscle dysfunction – overactive, which is thought to be due to a load of scar tissue, and I take a medication called Tolterodine to manage it. However, my “holding power” is still not great at the best of times.

I was panicking during every breath-hold, trying to stay still while my bladder was screaming. I was regretting my decision to stay in my daytime clothes, because I was seriously worried about peeing myself. In a blind (no pun intended) panic, I squeezed the alert bulb right at the end. The nurse appeared immediately, but she was actually coming to tell me the scan was finished. I’m pleased to report I made it to the toilet just in time!

The aftermath: eight days later

I had to wait while they checked the images before the cannula was removed. As for the results, I have no idea when they will arrive or who will deliver them.

The osmotic fluid continued to flush through my system for the rest of Saturday, and I am still experiencing stomach cramps eight days later. It is a reminder that even “non-invasive” tests can be an exhausting ordeal for a body already dealing with chronic illness!