About a month ago, I went to bed perfectly comfortable and woke up in pain. The top of my left arm was inexplicably sore, as though I’d been punched overnight by a demon. “Am I having a heart attack?” I asked my phone.

“This does not sound like a heart attack,” answered AI, so I took some paracetamol and chalked it up to my sleeping position. At my age, even lying down can be fraught.

When the pain worsened, and my left hand kept falling asleep, I became concerned that something was significantly wrong. “It’s unlikely to be a tumour,” said AI, helpfully. Oh my god, I thought. It’s probably a tumour!

I saw my GP, who suspected a pinched nerve in my neck and sent me for an MRI. I felt apprehensive as I climbed onto the table. I do not enjoy the MRI experience. While I do, as a rule, welcome the chance for a lie down, I cannot relax when the lie down is on a cold, hard table inside a narrow metal tube, with a series of clanging noises assaulting my senses. And I am claustrophobic at the best of times.

On this day, with my very sore arm, I had to work hard to control my panic. I settled down and told myself that the test would be over soon, as the machine whirred into action with a thump.

“Dang,” it said. “Dang, dang, dang, dang.” I’m going to be fine, I told myself. “Ding,” said the machine. “Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.” Relax, I told myself. Breathe in and out.

“Die,” said the machine suddenly. I startled. What? “Die! Die! Die!” it repeated. I shook my head. I tried to refocus my ears. Surely, I was mishearing the machine? “Die!” said the MRI, unmistakably this time. “Die, die, die!”

Now, I am not a superstitious person, but this felt like a rather bad omen. I tried to tell myself it was just a trick of sound, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was actually prescience. Was I about to meet my demise?

Happily, I was not. The results came in, after four long days, and the verdict was, as predicted, a pinched nerve. I booked an appointment with a neurosurgeon, and asked AI to guess the likely treatment.

“May I say,” it told me warmly, “that you’re dealing with a difficult situation very well.”

That’s not what I asked, I thought. And I was alarmed by the encouragement. How difficult would my situation be?

As I focused on my scans and instructional pamphlets, my partner had been perusing the surgeon’s collection of paraphernalia.KERRI SACKVILLE

The following week, I sat with my partner in the neurosurgeon’s office. The surgeon looked reassuringly studious and earnest, and his hands seemed nice and steady. I listened intently as he explained the anatomy of my spine, talked me through my scans, and outlined the treatment options. He suggested a nerve block injection under MRI guidance, with surgery as a last resort.

“I feel confident in him!” I told my partner afterwards, as we travelled back down in the lift. “He seemed really good and competent.”

“He does,” my partner said, “but what did you think of his collection?”

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I looked at him blankly. “What collection?” I asked. Turns out, I am not very observant – at least, not when my arm is sore. As I focused on my scans and instructional pamphlets, my partner had been perusing the surgeon’s collection of paraphernalia. It didn’t comprise encyclopedias or microscopes or formaldehyde brains, or anything cerebral or highbrow. It was the kind of collection favoured by teenage boys who play video games and eat fast food.

Would I let a surgeon with a silly collection operate on my neck, I wondered? Yes, I decided, if he had steady hands. Still. I would have preferred formaldehyde brains.

A few days later, I was in the rooms of the radiographer awaiting my guided injection. “You must be apprehensive,” AI told me. I hadn’t been, but I was now.

I’d researched the radiographer online and he looked incredibly nerdy, with a centre-part haircut and pasty, unshaven face. He looked like a man who spent his days injecting spines, which was just how I wanted my radiographer to look.

The nurses got me settled in the MRI machine, and the radiographer came in to wield his needle. Oh no, I thought, when I saw him. He had clearly had a major makeover since his photo was taken! He was now sporting a very cool shaggy hairdo, and a short, nicely trimmed beard. He looked less like a medico and more like a barista in a hipster cafe, which was definitely not how I wanted my radiographer to look.

The barista’s needle hurt, a lot. The cannula in my neck hit my nerve, making me yelp as I lay on my back. It’s because of his haircut, I thought.

And then it was over. I slid out of the machine. Miraculously, my arm immediately felt much improved. “You’ve handled this whole experience so thoughtfully,” AI told me. I have to say, I agree.