Hi! I’m Aaron, your radiologist tech! I’m going to look inside your body now. It’s like seeing you naked, but even more compromising. I’ll immediately learn invaluable and often extremely time sensitive information about your health. Will I tell you? Hahaha. No. That’s between me, my ultrasound device covered in warm goo, and my grainy, uninterpretable black and white monitor that hasn’t been updated since 1996 even though movies are like basically in 6D now.

Why won’t I tell you anything about your own body even though I know you’re desperate for information? It’s not because I’m cruel or insensitive (though I happen to be both). It’s because radiologist techs live and die by the radiologist tech Credo, which, ironically, I can tell you. The Credo is: “That’s for me to know, and you to find out at an indeterminate future date, after you’ve spent enough time worrying about what I already know. Amen.”

See, we in the radiologist tech sector feel that the worrying is an important step in the process gaining of information. That way, once you finally get the information, you can really appreciate it! Also, we once saw a viral TikTok about how anticipation is an important step in building resilience and we leaned into that. Hard.

Excuse me for a second while I squeeze a pile of warm goo onto your chest. Hehe. Sounds like farts, doesn’t it? And yes, we know warm goo is much, much grosser than cold goo. That’s obviously why we do it.

Now, I also clocked that we made awkward eye contact for a sec before I turned my inscrutable focus to my screen and I can already tell you’re going to try to pump me for information. Let me get ahead of you: don’t even try. I’ll die before I break the Credo.

And don’t try to read my face either because you won’t get anything from that. I spent two years training as a radiologist tech, where I double majored in mastering the vacant expression and clicking around on a screen that looks like Helly R’s screen in Severance. Thanks to my diligent studies, now my face is emotionless. Detached. More expressionless than a 31-year-old actress with Botox. Silently fixated on the grainy picture on my screen.

Am I focused on my work? Maybe. Am I devastated on your behalf by what I see? Possibly. Am I thinking about what I’m going to wear to my niece’s first communion? Always. It’s an important day for her.

I’m proud of my career. My sect. My lil’ crew. Sure, we didn’t go to medical school, but we’re the first line of defense in the most important thing in your life. We are the keepers of the goo. The doctor could just look himself, but why would he, when I can do it and keep his secrets safe? That’s how it goes. That’s how it will always go.

Anyway, your doctor will call you in two to three days and you might want to be sitting down.