Last spring, after a couple of years of little to no pain
following the previously whined about spinal injection that I miraculously
survived, I began experiencing a few symptoms of my pet bulged-disc again. From
time to time I used the horrifying possibility of pain re-occurrence to remove
myself from physical work by claiming that "taking it easy" would be the prudent
thing to do as to not risk further injury by vacuuming, washing windows or other
dangerous activities.
The symptoms became present to the point I felt the need to
repeatedly tell my friends in the health care industry all about it. I was
surprised at how fast my buddy Mike secured another MRI appointment for me.
Apparently, he had enough of me whining about it and used his connections to
expedite my case. As appreciative as I was for his effort, there was still the
fact that getting me into an MRI machine was going to be a task Hercules himself
may have declined.
I received a phone call from the same facility that I had my
first MRI to verify the appointment date and go over some important details,
like how they plan to actually complete the MRI knowing of my Claustrophobia and
unhealthy if not irrational fear of the machine itself. The nurse on the phone
told me to see my family doctor and ask for medication X as it is known as the
"I don't give a hoot" drug and I should be able to take that and make it through
the MRI uneventfully. I complied.
I took the medication as prescribed and shortly before it was
time to go into the MRI studio, it had kicked in and in full force. I'm not used
to altering my mind with chemicals, but this one for lack of better words made
me feel dumb(er). It wasn't the normal or expected effect. But, I'm not the
normal patient they expected either. I figured analyzing my thoughts and
feelings would be a good idea at that time. I couldn't control the strange
feeling or my thoughts at all and it went downhill from there.
The imaging techs went through the motions of putting me on
the table, wrapping me tightly in a cocoon of hot blankets, fitting me with
large cranium covering headphones, putting on very uncomfortable feeling socks
and applying a sleeping mask to my face so I wouldn't open my eyes and see how
trapped inside this tiny area I actually was. All that prep-work didn't help my
claustrophobia at all. Combine that with the fact that the medication was having
opposite intended results and it's not hard to describe what happened next. I
couldn't have felt more uncomfortable in my own skin if I was in a dark coffin
with my own lifeless body lying on top of me. The test never began.
My friend Mike had taken time out of his day to personally
drive me to the imaging center to make sure I wouldn't try to escape, only to
see me walk out of the MRI unit in shame. The following picture somewhat
accurately depicts what he saw.
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