My Experience as a Model

Ultrasound Model, That Is

It was a casual day scrolling on my phone, when a strange post popped up on my screen. “Volunteers Needed, Honorarium Rewarded” I clicked it, interested. The post, unfortunately taken down as of now, outlined an interesting premise: an ultrasound workshop for medical students was looking for volunteers to model for ultrasound scans, to let the students practice their techniques, organ and bodily function identification, and at the end, their certification of the course. A $50 honorarium would be awarded to models.

I have had ultrasound scans before, I could use $50, and the venue the course was taking place at was just up the road from my apartment. Why the heck not?

I sent an email to the address provided on the Reddit post, and was responded to very quickly with a chart of dates, times, and addresses that models were needed. They sent a link to an information page, outlining what to expect, such as what I should wear, the slick gel and the probe to scan human anatomy, and other things, like they might need a full bladder for some scans.

After some contemplation, and the fact that it was only happening this weekend, I thought $100 would be worth it, so I signed up for two slots.

When I showed up at the Holiday Inn downtown, I followed the signs and entered a dimly lit hotel conference room. It almost looked like a spa, with cloth covered massage tables laid out against the back walls of the room and everyone speaking in hushed tones. I announced softly to the woman that I was here for 6:00pm, and she handed me a waiver to sign. I read the whole thing thoroughly, and it basically said that I wouldn’t be hurt, but if I was, they weren’t liable, that I could leave at any time if I was uncomfortable, and that I was owed a $50 honorarium at the end of the three hours. I quickly signed and began the wait for my turn.

Students milled about, sitting against the wall with their sticker covered laptops, instructors prepped the now-empty massage tables, and my fellow models sat in our chairs, some reading books, others on their phones, and some, like me, watching the process.

They called my name, and I stood heartily; I was kind of excited!

I had followed the instructions from the website and had a pair of gym shorts under my comfortable sweatpants. I was wearing a light t-shirt and had my winter coat slung over my arm. The instructor told me I could put my stuff under the table. I slipped my shoes off and hopped up. They asked me to please remove my shirt, and tuck two pieces of cloth into the top and bottom of my sport’s bra. They would be scanning my heart today.

I laid there, shivering under the low lights, when a young woman Ali introduced herself to me; she was the student. And Scott was the instructor, he would be evaluating. I didn’t realize that I was the model for the practical exam. This was their test after a long weekend of learning and doing the course. I could feel Ali’s nerves as she sat next to me on the table.

She squirted some cold, blue gel onto a white probe, it looked a little like a computer mouse, or a barcode scanner, and connected with a thick wire to the computer; the screen was black. The moment she touched the probe to my chest, it lit up with white and grey, and I could suddenly see the moving parts inside of me.

That is my heart beating!

Neither of them seemed as enthralled with this sight as I was, so I kept quiet and just watched the screen as Scott asked her rapid fire questions about the anatomy of my heart: which part was where, which ventricle was that, and after a while, the cold gel warmed to my skin, the low lights were so soothing, and their medical language droning reminded me of a soft podcast. I closed my eyes and I think I may have drifted off.

I think, despite not knowing anything about the course or the exam, that Ali did very well! The second student, Aaron, seemed to struggle a little more. He pushed harder on the probe, he stuttered at some questions, and had me rolling side to side a little more often. But he looked quite like my brother and the instructor was still encouraging.

I sat up from the table and stretched my arms high above my head. The dried gel on my stomach and chest crackled and flaked. There was a small envelope in my shoe that held a crisp 50 dollar bill. I tucked it into my wallet with a smile and walked home.

The next day, I took the train to a university campus farther away from the city. The waiting area in this venue felt more tense, separated completely from the examination room for, what I would find out later, is for good reason.

A woman with several clipboards walked in, looking frazzled and stressed. I signed the same waiver as yesterday, and began drinking water, at her instruction. They were looking at female anatomy today, which requires a full bladder to provide a solid window against which to see the sensitive organs.

I took a deep breath and began a staring contest with my water bottle.

I’ve been here before. When I had appendicitis, I did this. On long road trips, I’ve done this. I sipped. And I sipped again.

For 2 hours, while others were being called back in shifts, I sat in a cold meeting room at some random university building, sipping my water, trying to stave off a headache from the fluorescent lights, and trying to ignore that guy across the room staring at me. My bladder was getting fuller and fuller.

I began to think that maybe I had made a mistake.

The next time the woman came into the room, my hand shot up into the air, “I’m ready!” I exclaimed. She smiled and called me back with six other models.

I could keep my shirt on this time, just hiked up to expose my flat belly. The moment the instructor put the probe to my belly, I almost lost my entire constitution. “Nice full bladder.” He told me, and I beamed with pride, and agony. The rest of the ladies were getting their bellies ultrasounded and I overheard the instructors asking them how much they drank, and when the last time they used the bathroom.

“They all have empty bladders.” He announced loudly while distributing water bottles. “Let’s have the students start the lung lecture, and we can scan in 30 minutes.” I sat up quickly, and again, almost lost everything inside me. Was I the only one who followed instructions?! My socked feet slid across the floor as I approached the man, almost fuming, but I kept my composure, “Can I please go let some of this out?” I asked. “I’m dying here.” The instructors all smiled and nodded, instructing me to count to twelve then stop. I could’ve counted to twelve-hundred.

I laid back down on the bed, slightly more comfortable while watching the women chug their water. I glared at them. This room felt so much more clinical than the hotel conference room. It felt frenzied and higher stakes.

Just as my stomach was tightening to release again, the lights on the other room flicked on, and students began piling out of the room and sidling up to our bedsides. It was a flurry of activity, everyone talking over each other, clipboards being handed over my laying body, and not even so much as a ‘hello’ before the cold gel was squirted onto my stomach and the white probe was dug right into my belly. But sure as last time, the screen lit up, and there it was, my uterus. How cool!

The timer in the middle of the room went off, and the students all shuffled to the next bed. I deduced that I would be scanned in this way at least five more times. Once all the students had a chance to view my insides, some of them came back to my table to rescan, as they had missed a couple checks on their clipboards.

As soon as they were finished, they started stripping the bed of the paper material and the next batch of models were ushered in. I got the sense they were rushing me out, but my shirt was all goopy, so I quickly removed it and tucked it into my bag, zipping my jacket over my sport’s bra. The dried parts of the gel flaked from under the coat, but some parts stuck, and I cringed. I was hoping my wet shirt wasn’t too close to my book. But I shoved my hand into my pocket and retrieved my wallet, which now held 2 crisp $50 bills.

After relieving myself, I saw that that the snow was coming down. I rolled my eyes and began the trek home.

After a train ride and a walk in the snow, in the shower at home, as I was trying to eliminate my skin from the layers of cracked glue, activated and slippery again by the water, I thought about the vastly different experiences from Friday to Saturday, and the $100 sitting in my wallet. It might be the only time I’m ever able to call myself a ‘model.’ There were some shortcomings, but it also felt nice to help those students on the path to their dreams. Maybe I’ll do this again in a few months with the next course. Then again maybe not.