Before I had the biopsy, Dr. Bagley scheduled an MRI scan of my entire head and neck. Now the first MRI back in December was not all that bad. I got to listen to opera on headphones and while it was mildly uncomfortable to lay still for 30 minutes, all that padding felt like I was laying on tempurpedic bed. In a way, it was a little relaxing.
The second MRI at Duke, was a panic attack nightmare. While I still got to lay on the pillowed bed, there was no relaxing music. My head was strapped down to the bed. My chest was strapped down. I only move my arms a bit. I asked for an eyemask but they didn't have one. They did however give me a washcloth to put over my eyes because I knew if I saw the inside of that machine 6 inches from my face, I was going to freak out. Now most procedures if I've had them before, piece of cake. IVs, blood drawn, pap smear...I can handle it. And I am not usually a claustrophobic person, but this was awful...I felt like I was being sent into space. On top of that they inserted some kind of iron dye into my IV to make the films more readable which made me dizzy and hallucinate. So here I am in this loud, blaring machine with no calming music, completely tied down to this bed for AN HOUR AND A HALF and I'm hallucinating that I'm going to miss the opening night of Evita and Lynda Clark is going to eat me for breakfast (and then some). I am freaking out and all I can think about is "sing Musetta in your head! Sing Quando M'en Vo in your head!!!" Because that's what I do when I get nervous during intense medical procedures, I sing opera in my head. (It worked during the biopsy too.)
A few days later, we go to Bagley's office to view the MRI. And there I am, in radio form. Now, the inside of a person's head is supposed to be symmetrical. But on the lower left side of my head and neck have this huge mass on them. Not symmetrical at all. And it becomes clear that I very much have a tumor. And this is cliche, but it was one of those moments where life slows down to half time, like a heartbeat. I'm looking at this film and I have tunnel vision and hearing. It was one of, if not the most, slow burn shocks, I've ever ever had in my life. My mother is breathing hard and whimpering, my dad is anxious and asking question after question. And I just want to hear the doctor's plan. Here is the tumor. It is real. How are you going to fix it, doc? So he says I have to have the biopsy to determine the benign or malignancy of it. Good. That's all I need to worry about for the next couple of days. If there's one thing that's gonna keep me sane, it's doing exactly what the doctor says and taking this process one day at time.
Mom left the room with the doctor to ask more questions. I went to look out the window and I got choked up and started to tear up. Dad did the same thing and embraced.
All I could do is look at him and say "I'm scared."
He said, "I know."
Then I just kept talking out my feelings through the tears," I am going to get better. We are going to get through this together. God is watching over us. And I have a strong, stable man who loves me and is going to stay by side no matter what and we are going to get married. Whatever happens, they are going to fix me." Of course, this monologue came out rather choked up and blubbery. It was what I felt in the moment. And Dad reaffirmed it all.
I'm still scared. The image of the tumor mass of the MRI is permanently cemented into my brain, and at times, it weighs me down. I have good pain days and bad pain days. It's day 5 and we still haven't heard back from the biopsy. I am ready to get this toxic alien out of my body. I am ready to move on. I am ready to be free and back in my old body again.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment