Recently, I have been dealing with a few health issues. I was diagnosed with auto-immune thyroid disease, called Hashimoto’s disease. It’s basically hypothryroidism, but Hashimoto’s is a much cooler name. It sounds like a fast moving car, which is ironic, because hypothyroidism makes you feel like you are constantly driving a car that is just about to run out of gas.
A few weeks ago, I started experiencing a few strange symptoms. It felt like adrenaline rushes that never ended. A feeling you get when your heart starts racing, because you’ve had a fright, that soon calms down once your body realises everything is ok. My adrenaline rushes would start, but my body wouldn’t let out the all clear signal, which would ultimately lead me into a full blown panic attack. I went to see my doctor about this and had a series of blood test to check that my adrenal glands were behaving. He said, it’s unlikely, but he would be negligent not to send me for a CT scan of my adrenals, as sometimes a benign tumour of the adrenals can cause this. A Pheochromocytoma. Another cool word. I’m not a fan of these claustrophobia inducing tests at the best of times, but with my recent adrenaline surges and panic attacks, this sounded like a terrible idea. I reluctantly agreed, as CT’s are really not too bad. Not nearly as bad a the dreaded MRI.
So, I had the CT which was not as bad as I remembered. I experienced an adrenaline rush followed by a mild panic attack, but it was over so quickly, and I felt immediate relief when I was out of the machine.
The next day, I attended a charity lunch for a children’s cancer centre. It was a good distraction while I waited for the results, and a good excuse to have a few glasses of champagne in the middle of the day, which was also quite therapeutic. My phone was on silent during the lunch, but at some point I noticed two missed calls and a voicemail notification. I recognised the number. It was the hospital. This couldn’t be good. My friend sitting next to me noticed the colour drain from my face, and asked what was wrong. I showed her my phone and she suggested I call them back. I thought about it. What was the point of ruining this important fundraising lunch, with lovely friends, and lovely champagne? The news would still be waiting for me when the lunch was over. I decided to be a bit Scarlet O’Hara about the whole thing. I can’t think about this now, I will think about this later. Fiddle-dee-dee. A few minutes later, a text message preview pops up on my phone. Before I had a chance to ignore it, my brain registered what it said. They saw something on the CT. Please call. I should have torn down the curtains, in Scarlet O’Hara style, to smother my phone’s vibration alerts, but it was too late. I phoned a taxi and went home.
The CT needed to be follow up with an MRI. The dreaded MRI. Just hearing those words sent my heart rate to 100/bpm, and I was having trouble breathing. The logical part of my brain said it would be nothing, but the adrenaline fuelled freak-out part of my body told me it was time to panic! So panic, I did. Insert vodka martini here.
Fast forward to MRI day. I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after 6am, as they were giving me Gadolinium contrast dye through an IV during the procedure. I set my alarm for 5:45 so I could quickly enjoy a black coffee and some juice before the 6am cut off. The coffee probably wasn’t the best idea, as my unwelcome adrenaline had started to kick in.
During the drive to the hospital, I had to quickly phone my insurance company to get a pre-authorisation for the MRI. Again, probably not the best idea. My mouth felt like paste, my body was trembling, my heart was racing, and I was hyperventilating while trying to speak the representative. I was able to answer most of the questions with yes or no, which was ok. Then I had to spell out words like Pheochromocytoma, Gadolinium, and Hashimoto’s with a dry mouth and a bad cell phone signal. Finally, he just needed to know what they were testing for. I said an abnormality. He asked, ‘What kind of abnormality?’ I said they saw something on the CT. He asked, ‘What did they see?’ I told him, if they knew what it was, I wouldn’t be having the MRI now, would I? He agreed but again asked the same thing in a different way, ‘What were they looking for?’ I told him to use his imagination, and he quickly gave me an authorisation number. I might have used an expletive before the word imagination.
We arrive at the hospital and I feel like I can’t breathe. My body is shaking and I am having pins and needles in my hands, feet, and face. I recognise that I’m hyperventilating, so look for something I can use to fill the carbon dioxide loss. The only thing I can find in the car is a doggie poo bag, so I stuck my face in it and kept breathing. After a few minutes, I was able to get out of the car. I took the poo bag with me, just in case.
We check in, and I’m brought into the little changing room where I am met by a nurse with a clipboard. At this point my heart rate is easily over 100/bpm and I’m hyperventilating again. My hands are shaking so badly, that my signature looks like something a 5 year old would scribble with crayons. I asked with a shaky voice, how long would I be in the machine? I was expecting to hear 10 minutes, like the not too unpleasant CT scan. Her answer sent me into a full panic attack. An hour! Seriously? I don’t think I can do it. I was reassured over and over again, that I would be fine and the next thing you know, I am being forced into the MRI room with a nurse and a radiographer on either side of me, my arms over their shoulders, and I’m practically being dragged to the machine. I can’t feel my feet at this point, so maybe I was walking but just didn’t feel it. They sat me on the table, propped my feet up, and helped me to lay down. Before I knew it, they had an IV started and had me positioned to slide into the narrow tunnel that was the dreaded MRI machine. I don’t think I can do this, I repeated, but all of my attempts to escape were completely ignored. They were not letting me out. They put this heavy thing over my chest to keep me still, which further laboured my breathing. They asked me what kind of music I would like to hear through the headphones. I felt the pressure of a last request type scenario. I couldn’t think. I murmured something about Gangsta Rap through my chattering teeth, as an attempt to be funny, but I only made myself laugh. I hear the words, ‘close your eyes now’,and into the tunnel I went. I remembered the words of a new blogger friend of mine, Zoe, told me the night before. ‘You are not a patient, you are a reporter on assignment. This could be your second blog.’ OK, new friend Zoe, who actually is my old friend from high school (see previous blog), I will be a reporter!
I started to do my yoga breathing. It is a very slow inhale, followed by an even longer exhale. Breathing this way will slow down the heart rate. If you count while you are doing it, it helps distract the mind as well. Like counting sheep. I am actually feeling a bit of relief, and think I might be able do this! I am more relaxed, waiting for the test to start and the horrific noise to begin. All I can hear at this point is faint music through the headphones. Pit Bull featuring J-Lo? Is this their idea of Gagnsta Rap? Puh-lease!
The first noise makes me jump slightly. It sounds like an alarm you would hear before a hazmat team enters a building, just as the automatic steel doors come crashing down. I think I’ve heard this same noise in an episode of 24. I will think about Jack Bauer for a few minutes to get through this horrific noise. I’m actually feeling a bit zen now, thinking of Jack, and acing my yoga breathing. My teachers at Meadowlark Yoga would be so proud of me. I thought, screw you adrenaline, I got this! Then a voice through the headphones disrupts my calm. ‘Don’t take a deep breath, but stop breathing and hold it. Don’t breath at all…NOW!’
Have you ever tried holding your breath for about 15 seconds (counting Mississippi-ly)? Go on, try it now. NO deep breath. Just wherever you are in your breathing stop and hold it for a full 15 full seconds. I’ll wait. Not as easy as you thought, huh?
So, I get through a few series of the stop breathing malarkey, and now I’m starting to panic again. Cue heart rate racing, pins and needles, and body trembling. I try to go back to my yoga breathing, which is much more difficult this time. I can’t get settled back into a rhythm. I’m all over the place. The next noise sounds like machine gun fire mixed with 1,000 car alarms going of in a shipyard where all the ships are blowing their horns. The ‘bed’ starts to shake a little with these new noises. That’s how loud it is. Between the trembling ‘bed’, my trembling body, and the pins and needles, I am back on the verge of a full blown panic. That voice comes back through my ears, this time instructing me to breathe faster. I do as I’m told, but this is not helping me feign off my panic attack. ‘You have to breathe faster,’ he keeps repeating, almost shouting through the headphones. Are you frigin’ serious? I’m trying not to die here, and you are trying to kill me! I do as I’m told, and say I don’t think i can do this anymore. I repeat this a few times. I’m ignored. They told me they would be able to hear me, if I called out. Liars! Maybe they ARE trying to kill me?
Just when i think i can’t take it anymore, the noise stops and the machine is slowly reversing me out of the tunnel. I did it, I thought! I am shaking from head to toe and can’t move my hands. They are frozen in this claw- like shape. The nurse and radiologist are now beside me, telling me they are going to inject the Gadolinium into my IV. You are nearly half-way through, they say. WHAT? Half-way? I swear at this point I had been in there for well over an hour. LIARS! I want out! They tell my shaking, hyperventilating, teary-eyed self that I’m absolutely fine. LIARS! I AM NOT FINE! Next thing I feel is a burn, that starts in my arm, travels up my neck, down through my chest and stomach to my groin. I’m sliding back into the machine again. I’m sure something has gone terribly wrong, as this burn through my body can not be right. I try with all my might to get back to my yoga breathing, Jack Bauer, and my assignment as a reporter, when the piercing sound of nails on a chalkboard echoes through the machine. ‘Stop breathing,’ he says. Oh for f@@@ sake! I’m being punked! Forget Jack Bauer, Ashton Kutcher is going to slide me out of this machine telling me, ‘You’ve been punked’ any minute now. ‘Breathe faster, love. You have to breathe faster,’ comes through the headphones. I give up. Take me now!
I think I blacked out for a few minutes, because the next thing I knew, I am out of the claustrophobic tunnel, getting sips of water through a straw. I can’t speak, but I can quickly deduce that the test is over. They sit me up and we stay there for a while, while the colour returns to my face and the my body stops shaking. Again, with one arm over the nurse, and one over the radiologist, they drag me towards the door. As they open the door, I see a young woman in the waiting room. The next victim, I thought. I instinctively kick the door shut, with my numb foot, and tell them that I won’t let that girl see me in this state. We take a minute, and I plaster a smile over my chattering teeth and mumble something like, that wasn’t bad at all, as they drag me into the changing room. We all start to giggle at my bad acting, which actually makes me relax for the first time since my gangsta-rap joke. I leave the dressing room, this time with only one escort, and I smile a slightly more natural smile at the frightened girl, and gave her a little wink.
They gave me some orange juice in the waiting room, and after about 20 minutes, I felt like I could stand on my own two feet. Not quite. After a valium and another 20 minutes, I’m on my way home.
It was all good news in the end. Just a pesky Hemangioma. Another cool word, but completely harmless. My friend, Zoe, knew an Hemangioma in high school, and said she was completely benign. Glad mine is too.
I hope I haven’t disappointed Zoe with my reporting skills. The last time I did any reporting was for Tunlaw, our high school newspaper.
I hope Ms G doesn’t read this. I still fear the red Flair.
Iris 1331 