I once saw a construction worker wearing a great T-shirt. It read, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T . . . it’s a big deal.” So it is.

It caused me to wonder, what would my T-shirt say? It would be similar, but instead of the word “respect” it would spell “S-P-A-C-E.”

Granted, I have taken to the outdoors and open spaces since birth, but I am also claustrophobic. Probably in part because when I was 5 years old, I had my stomach pumped out from an overdose of Benadryl.

The pretty red liquid looked like the same stuff in our hummingbird feeder and tasted as good as cherries. Twice during the procedure I had reached up and yanked the tubes from out of my nostrils. After that some white coats rushed over, unfolded a sheet and wrapped me up like a mummy.

That straightjacket sensation was unforgettable. Even now, remembering it still makes me want to run naked though the woods. So recently, when my doctor said that he wanted me to have an MRI, I wasn’t thrilled.

There had been a numbing in my left hand that had now moved up my arm. The best way to check it out, he thought, was to have an MRI. Turns out, I had four of 'em, but as I learned, there were gifts along the way.

One that I am especially grateful for was learning how to manage my fear of confinement. If you have ever had an MRI on your brain, you know that the procedure includes wearing a football-type helmet. If you are not already claustrophobic, you will be after this.

But the nice person who was about to perform the first MRI gave me a tip: “If you keep your eyes closed,” he said, “it’ll help a lot.”

Help? It was huge. Next time you have an MRI, try this and see if it works for you.

Aside from the confinement element, MRIs are loud. How loud? It’s like you are standing on the platform of a working oil well. This is why I would laugh when before each MRI someone always asked, “Would you like to listen to some music?” To which I would answer, “No thanks, I brought my own,” which brings me to the best part.

If you are a writer, you have an advantage going in. What I mean is, if the world comes to you in metaphors, call upon them during an MRI — or for that matter, during any time of need. For every blast blaring into my ears, I attached the sound to something pleasurable. In my case, it was usually nautical or maritime, from a foghorn on a large vessel to swimming in the deep blue sea along side a thousand flippers singing.

By MRI No. 3, I got pretty good at going places. Good thing, too, because this one lasted an hour and a half. In my head, I sung every song from the movie The Sound of Music more than once. I flew over hills and streams, “…like the birds that rise from the lake to the trees."

Thankfully, metaphors, not medication, were what got me through the MRIs. Not that I have anything against the latter. The world of medicine conquers amazing things.

But, keep in mind, so does the mind. I might have rolled out of that monster machine like a loaf of baked bread, but in my soul, I had just come out of the ocean, from soaring over hills. Feeling more grateful than before for the unexpected gifts of being a writer.