Medical Procedures Can Be Fun

This morning, I was scheduled to have an MRI.  I swore to myself I would not blog about this, because, quite frankly, I know that the only thing to be achieved by droning on and on about medical procedures such as this is to bore the pants off of the few readers that I have managed to snag.  However, I'm relatively certain that ship has already sailed.  Today was a slightly traumatic experience, and, as the way I tend to deal with my inner feelings is to write about them, I am going to detail the trials and travails of my morning at the St. Joseph Medical Center and Hospital in Mishawaka.  So, you can heed this warning and stop right here, or risk utter boredom and read on.  The choice is yours.

First I have to go back to an earlier time, when I had a CT scan with contrast dye, maybe 6 years ago.  As I was lying on the table, I asked the technician if there was a cat anywhere in the room.  He laughed, thinking I was making some sort of joke, and asked why I posed such a silly question.  It was merely because my eyes were itching profusely and I was breaking out in hives on my face.  As soon as I told him that, all sorts of serious and frightening commotion ensued, resulting in the doctor being brought in to the room.  I was immediately pumped up with Benadryl and then they proceeded to stare at me for about 45 minutes.  It was an hour before they finally agreed to let me leave, with the very stern command that I always remember to tell them down the line that I have an allergy to contrast dye; because, as the doctor said verrrrrry seriously, "It only gets worse the next time."

Well, I didn't worry, thinking that, as a perfect specimen of health, contrast dye was not going to play prominently, or at all, in my medical future.  As is often the case with me, I was wrong.

As I seem to have this unremitting joint pain, my doctor chose to prescribe an MRI with contrast dye for my hips.  Remembering that I promised, upon pain of death, to admit to my contrast dye allergy, I obediently informed him of this fact.  He was unconcerned.  Paraphrasing him, he said "we'll just pump you up with drugs."

I admit to being somewhat afraid of this procedure.  I envisioned going into anaphylactic shock there on the table, and then going into some sort of cardiac arrest and then, floating above my body while they phoned my emergency contact persons to inform them that there was some "bad news."  But the constant pain forced me to go for the procedure in hopes of some sort of solution and relief.

MRIs are miserable things, and anyone who has ever had one knows this--with the exception of the time I had the "open" MRI--that was a snap and I think that the medical profession should quit utilizing MRI machines that were manufactured in Medieval times and resort to using the open MRI.  My physician tried to prescribe Xanax or some other tranquilizer so I wouldn't freak out beyond control when I was rolled into the tube of suffocation and ultimate death.  I am, admittedly, severely claustrophobic--a condition I attribute to my brother Jody (he is so tried of hearing this) who, when we were children, enjoyed locking me in dark closets and also putting a pillow over my face in an attempt to smother me.  However, since I knew I was going into the tube of suffocation and death feet first, and because I didn't want to find a "driver" (required if you take the tranquilizers), I opted to forego that particular drug and hoped I would just be lucky.

Nobody, and I mean nobody had discussed with me the procedure of getting that contrast dye into my hip.  I was sort of hoping I would drink something. With the CT scan, I think it went in through an IV.  I don't remember it being particularly stressful.  So, as we were walking into the hospital, the MRI lady (they will, heretofore be referred to as MRI ladies or men, or Radiology ladies or men since I don't know their proper titles) asked me if anyone had discussed the process of inserting the dye.  This sounded ominous.  Clearly, it can't be a good thing if a procedure merits such serious discussion beforehand.  She then explained that first they would inject a deadening agent into my hip.  Now I knew this wasn't good.  The word "injection" sends chills up and down my spine to begin with.  If a deadening agent has to be injected in (something that is going to hurt to begin with), then whatever comes behind it has to really suck.

Nevertheless, she cheerfully dumped me at the Radiology place, where a radiology woman explained in gory detail exactly what they were going to do, which was to first stick a big-assed needle in my groin in order to shoot in some drugs that will help me to not scream so loudly when they stick in the bigger-assed needle.

What happened next should not be surprising.  It explains why hospitals often cut off the wrong arm or leg.  I find it amazing how you are asked the same questions no less than 20 times by 20 different personnel, and yet, the information never seems to find its way to the person who matters and needs to know.  The Radiology doctor guy comes in and explains that, since I'm allergic to iodine, they can't give me that particular contrast dye,  The stuff they can give me; however, only works in about 80% of cases.  He explained that he would rather give me the iodine, but in order to do that,  he would have to give me Prednisone and Benadryl to counteract the allergy.  I looked at him in a very confused manner, as I had been taking both of them since the day before--as prescribed by my physician in order to allow me to have the iodine contrast dye.!!!  When I told him that he said, "That's not anywhere in your records."  It's just frightening, isn't it???

OK, so who wouldn't be slightly terrified by this?  It was a HUGE deal.  My physician's office went back and forth with hospital personnel the week before, deciding on what dosages to prescribe and what time they needed to be taken.  This took 3 or 4 hours and 4 different calls to each other to sort that out.  And yet, nobody thought to inform the guy who was actually going to shoot that crap in me???? Geez, I don't even know what to say about that.

Anyways, this procedure was, in a word, traumatic.  The "deadening agent" needle made me jump off the table.  The thing was rammed into my groin area.  And, imagine my reaction upon hearing that this first injection was "just a little pinch."  I have to admit to being a bit of a coward, especially where needles are concerned, but go ahead and ram a needle into that area on your body and then come back and tell me it doesn't hurt.

I then made the mistake of opening my eyes, just in time to see the Radiology Doctor guy take out something that looked very similar in size and shape to a jousting lance.  Grabbing it by the hilt with both hands, he then thrust it down, deep into my hip.  I practically leapt of the table--almost hitting the ceiling.  As he then took both hands and twisted the lance around inside me (I could feel it against my bone), and sternly admonished me that it was very important not to move.  Are you KIDDING me????  Not only was the pain intense (making me wonder why they bother wasting time with the "deadening agent"), but the feeling of some massive steel blade deep inside your hip, in a place your body knows nothing like that belongs, is indescribable and, I might add, something I never, ever want to endure again.

Telling me one more time that I can't move, he wriggled the blade around a bit more, made the horrific mistake of saying "we're almost done, only two more minutes" (as if two minutes didn't seem like an eternity at that point!) and then, began to pull it out--twisting it in a million circles, I'm sure, as he did so.  I was brave though, and, after about an hour, the trembling and crying ceased.

I really thought that, next to that, the MRI itself was going to be a piece of cake.  The Radiology woman person wheeled me, half naked, back to the medical building, so I could get inside the metal tube of death and have magnetic pictures of my hips taken.

Actually, going in feet first, and being tall, my head was right at the end of the tube--still inside, but right where it opens up and becomes wider, so I didn't really suffer any claustrophobia.  The worst part is that you aren't allowed to move, or it will just mess up the quality of the photos.  The problem is though, I was there because of pain in my joints--pain that is amplified by lying on my back and not moving for long periods of time.

I was asked what music I wanted to listen to for the duration of this trial.  From previous experience, I knew it was a waste of time to request classical music, because it is just drowned out by the loud noise created by the MRI machine.  Knowing they had Sirious Radio, I asked for channel 7--sounds of the 70s, and then prayed for Donna Summer.

I did ok for the first 10-15 minutes of this procedure, but the pain and ache in my hips and back soon set in.  I started wincing.  Then I started groaning.  Then I started praying.  And, just at the time I thought that this procedure needed to be at an end, the song "Fool if you think it's Over" came on.  I was there at least another 20 minutes trying not to move, and, quite literally, in agony.  The gaping wound left by the jousting lance injection was throbbing, and my joints were screaming out, saying "MOVE US!!!"

Well, as you must guess, it finally did end.  By that time, I was frozen into place, and the MRI people had to literally push me up and off the thing.  Rigor mortis had apparently set in and I had to be unfolded and helped up like an old person.

I sit here this evening, exhausted and aching, but being totally glad the ordeal is over.  It is important to say that, despite the unpleasantness of it all (now there's a mild word for it), the staff of professionals that assisted in these procedures were all kind and, despite my words above, as gentle as possible in dealing with me.  There's no possible way to make these sort of things fun or enjoyable--they're not meant to be.  All I can hope for is a solution so that I can stop moving around like an old woman well before my time.