I've had this horrible nerve pain in my left leg for almost two months now. It started a couple of weeks after I sprained my ankle. In my mother's expert medical opinion, I had a sciatica flare up because I favored one side of my body while the ankle healed. I haven't had one of these - sciatica flare ups, that is - since 2001, and boy, I'd forgotten how truly crappy they are.

Anyway.

Physical therapy made the pain worse. So did exercise. After several weeks, conventional medicine could barely touch the pain. I got online and did some research and realized I was going to need an MRI to diagnose the exact cause of the pain, so that we could better treat it. And so, Friday night at 7:30 p.m., I had my very first MRI.

THINGS I'D WISHED I'D KNOWN AHEAD OF TIME:

1. Real-life MRI machines are smaller than the ones you see on HOUSE.
2. Real-life MRI machines are very, very loud.
3. Real-life MRIs take TWENTY MINUTES.

I don't consider myself claustrophobic, even though I sometimes get itchy in large crowds. Like, Christmas-shopping-at-the-mall-during-prime-hours kind of crowds. So when my doctor asked if I was claustrophobic, I said no.

Even when the tech was getting me situated onto the plank they slide into the machine, I thought I was okay. She gave me foam earplugs, braced my neck in this spongey pillow thing, and wedged little pads between me ears and the spongey pillow. Then she started the slide backward, and all of a sudden my nose was a quarter of an inch from the top of this beige tube, and I all I could think was WHAT THE F#@K? See, on HOUSE, when they slide the patients in, there's like a good six inches between their faces and the top of the machine. So why was my nose one small sneeze away from touching it? I started to have a full-on panic attack.

The tech pulled me out and asked me if I was okay. I said, "Um, I don't think so." I said, "Can we do one of those open MRI things?"

She said, "We don't have those here. You'd have to go to Brandywine."

I said, "How long would it take me to reschedule it for there?"

She said, "We'd have to talk to your doctor first. She might not want you to have an open MRI. The images aren't as clear."

I took a deep breath. The whole point of getting the MRI was to figure out the exact source of my nerve pain. Unclear images would not help me in that journey, nor would postponing my appointment.

I said, "I knew it would be close, but I didn't realize how close."

She said, "Would a blindfold help?"

I said, "Yes, please."

She folded a piece of tissue and placed that on top of my eyes, followed by one of those old-school sleep blindfolds they give you on international flights. And then, for the next twenty minutes, I did the following:

1. Told myself, "You're okay. You can do this. Pretend you're on a boat. Yeah, you're on a boat, and the sun is shining and the breeze is blowing, and you're getting warm and tan and having SO MUCH FUN."

2. Made up words to the loud, techno sounds that played whenever they were taking an image. Some included, "Neveragain/ neveragain/neveragain" and "No/no/no/no/no."

3. Tried to figure out how many minutes had passed and how many I had left before I could be pulled out of the tube.

4. Cursed myself for ever believing anything on HOUSE was remotely real.

5. Cursed my mother, who's had several MRIs, for not properly preparing me for the experience.

Finally, the tech's voice came on and told me there was only one more image. I asked how long it would take and she said four minutes. I told myself, "You can do this. Four minutes is nothing. You are fine."

Unfortunately, it had been kind of humid all day, prepping for Saturday's rain storm, and the angle that my head was at made this nasty post-nasal drip go to the back of my throat. So by the very end, I was feeling like there wasn't enough air and that I couldn't breathe and OH MY GOD, GET ME OUT OF THIS THING. Also, the vibrations in the machine had caused the blindfold to slip a little, and I was starting to see again how close to the top of the tube my face really was.

Finally, the machine shut off. Then the tech said, "I'll be in in one minute."

Um, EXCUSE ME? Get me out of this crazy thing, will you?

When she finally pulled me out, I ran back into the dressing room, where I threw my bra back on in record time, then bum-rushed Joe in the waiting room.

I said, "Oh. My. God. Scariest thing ever."

He said, "You're starting to sound like Rachel Zoe."

The pounding of my heart continued for at least another half an hour. Then my mom, who can sometimes be totally heartless, made fun of me over the cell phone. She said, "MRIs are nothing, Lara. I get them all of the time. Wait until you need an EMG. You're going to hate that."

Then she proceded to explain this procedure where they stick two-inch-long needles into various parts of your spine to diagnose the exact location of nerve pain.

These are the things I inherit from my mother. Not her perfectly arched eyebrows or freakishly long legs. Oh, no. No, from her I get degenerative disc disease and the early signs of rosacea. Thanks, Mom.

My doctor doesn't work Mondays, so hopefully I'll find out tomorrow if the torturous MRI was worth the hassle. I mean, it has to be, right?

Right.