Places and times where it’s better not to have an emotional meltdown:
· Dinner table (with the family all present)
· Facetiming with the grandchildren
· Zoom call with Grandma
· Produce department at the grocery store
· Walking the dog with the neighbor
· Airport terminal
· Legoland (or Sesame Place or Disneyland...)
· Other (feel free to add to this list for me, will you?)
Well, today was a strange and unexpected meltdown day.
A week ago, I had another ureter stent replacement surgery and more biopsies. Unlike the last two times, the healing is taking its own sweet time. Of course, it all makes sense as I’m at the end of second month of chemo...and my white blood count is extremely wonky at the moment.
This morning, I went in for an MRI of the pelvis. I arrived on time, answered the hundred thousand questions that they already had answers to and then was led into the room where the machine is located. Just so you know, I am not claustrophobic. The magnetic resonance machines they were using on me today was open at both ends. No zippers or metal buttons or snaps on my clothes, so I didn’t even have to change. I was asked to lie down on a clean cloth, prior to being slid into a donut hole. It was explained to me that about halfway through, the dye would have to be injected. But for now, they put a pink headset over my ears and stuffed a squishy alarm (just in case) into one hand.
Everything was going way too smoothly. My mind was calm. My thoughts cheerful. Great music to listen to. The machine had its own melody (sort of) and a terrible sense of rhythm. I was focusing on my deep breathing. Twenty minutes later. Half an hour. Maybe it was a minute. It’s easy to lose track of time in there.
BUZZ!
“We have to slide you out.”
They slid me out.
“We have to do a search of the pockets in your pants.”
And gasp, what did we find? A used mask.
Did you know there are little metal staples or something in those masks? I didn’t.
“Okay, we have to start from the beginning.”
On go the headphones. In we go into the machine.
Suddenly, thoughts. Those darn runaway, unpredictable thoughts. Stop. Try to think your own thoughts. Think of work, writing. What was our writing goal for today? for this week?
BUZZ!
“We’re sliding you out.”
This time, nothing was wrong. Two technicians were ready to inject the dye. Yes, it takes two people to find my vein. It’s in my records.
So, we got started. One poke. The vein collapsed when the needle hit it. Second try. Nothing. Not their fault as I was telling them where to poke. But, because of my surgery last week, the veins are still bruised. I mentioned the port in my chest. Unfortunately, these technicians aren’t authorized to access it. So, they go after a nurse in the hospital.
A few minutes later—maybe it was half an hour later, I’m not sure—this white-haired nurse walks in. Immediately, she’s wrapping my arms in a warm blanket. Her voice is gentle. The eyes above the mask are kind. She explains to me that she’ll try the vein one more time. If she can’t do it, she’ll access the port.
Well, she got it. In goes the contrast stuff. Back into the tunnel I go. Almost done.
Not quite.
The tears started dripping down from the corners of my eyes. This is my life now was suddenly a very depressing thought. It was surprising to feel this so deeply.
“Are you okay?”
I heard the technician’s voice in my ear, and I mumbled, “Yes.”
I’d forgotten, they have cameras and can see me.
I decided to make myself think happy thoughts. Jim. My kids. My beautiful family.
Even more tears than before start pouring out of me.
Did I tell you I’m one of those people who sobs at weddings? I cry during commercials. I get choked up when a puppy licks my face. When I see puppies doing just about anything.
I never realized until that moment how awkward and helpless it was to lie in that machine and have a crying jag and not be able to wipe your eyes...or move, at all. Of course, I could have stopped the test at any time by squeezing the plastic bulb. But no way. The contrast fluid was in my body, and we were GOING TO GET THROUGH THIS.
Half an hour later, or maybe twenty minutes—anyway, it felt like eternity—I slid out of the tube.
The forty-five minute appointment had taken two and half hours. I was the first appointment, and most likely they’d be running late for the rest of the day. I thought of all the people who were probably cursing me up and down in the waiting room.
One of the technicians held a box of tissue out to me. I looked into her kind face. She didn’t seem stressed, at all.
I guess this wasn’t the first time she’d seen patients have a meltdown in the MRI machine.
It occurs to me now, though. If I’m going to melt down, I’d rather do it at Disneyland.
A friend has been kind enough to set up a GoFundMe fundraiser.
Here is the link to that page.