Falderol

The waiting game

So I don't have the attitude of Alright Tit, and I often lack Billygean's elegance, but I think both blogstars would agree: waiting is balls.

After the two hour MRI, which I'm still telling people about like it's some kind of long distance athletic accomplishment, one of my dear friends flew in from Seattle for a weekend diversion. We had a great time strolling downtown in the gorgeous summer weather, oogling the throngs coating the beaches, and eating so much that I'm still not hungry 24 hours after she left. For the most part, I forgot about the impending diagnosis (or the equally unnerving possibility of no diagnosis at all). Still, every time we passed someone in a wheelchair, I had to look away. As we rode the bus to dinner, a woman our age got on with a cane, and her partner stood like a shield in front of her as she took a seat in the crowded aisle. I wondered if she had MS, a thought I'd never had before when I saw a perfectly healthy looking young person carrying a cane.

Of course, there are morbid perks to the possibility of having a serious lifelong illness (god, I hate typing that phrase). It's much easier to justify the $30 dangling-to-my-ribcage necklace at Urban Outfitters: "Well, I have to look good now, and why shouldn't I?" I can eat my face off at the tapas bar: "Screw it. I might have MS: I'm ordering a second plate of potatoes with garlic aoli." I also don't abstain from beer, chocolate, ice cream, loads of pasta; since I'm sweating buckets at the gym these days, fearing I won't be able to work out like this in the future, I'm suddenly able to bump up my carb load by a factor of ten or so.

Two hours in the tube!

I think I've spent more time in the MRI machine this month than I will for the rest of my life (I hope??). My right arm increasingly resembles a permanent pincushion, with a series of half-healed spots where we've drawn blood and inserted IVs. I think it's offended that I keep choosing it, but the left arm veins are shite and appear to be shriveling further, perhaps because they sense danger.

This evening was the usual: check in at the front counter, leave SuperGeneticist to his post in the waiting room, change into surgical gown and pants designed to fit the Incredible Hulk, waddle around the waiting room hoping the pants don't fall down in front of other elderly patients who might be sensitive to bare-behinded obscenity. Pop some anti-anxiety medications to deal with Donut Claustrophobia, strap on an eye mask to avoid seeing the Iron Mask-knockoff they clamp over your face, and go to town with the crazed jackhammering MRI sounds.

Nightshade

The ups and downs of the medical diagnosis cycle astound me. One day we're on the deck with beers in hand, joking about how we're going to differentiate between the Craptastic MS (the disease) and the Fantastic MS (the grad school program); the next, I'm on the edge of my chair envisioning 20 years from now, with a guide dog and a wheelchair. There's no pretty way to say this: the waiting? It sucks.

Somehow, a diagnosis might be a relief. At least then, I can stop hoping it isn't one thing or fearing that it's another. I should know soon; I have a 90 minute MRI on Thursday to search for lesions in my spine. Yes, that will be a ball for a mild claustrophobe like me. I wonder if they can run an IV line of gin straight into my system? Or maybe just glue my eyes shut for an hour or two so I can't see the Donut of Doom encircling me. Anyway, 90 minute MRI plus 7 vials of blood (for obscure things like Lyme Disease, yay!) equals the prospect of an answer next Tuesday at my follow up appointment with neurology. 

Of course, part of me also wants to go back to that blissful time when I had no idea that my brain harbored a belladonna blossoming. I don't think of it that way most of the time -- it's more like, damn you, brain, knock it the eff off! -- but still. The idea that your body could house things that can hurt you, well, it's not easy to accept. I am healthy, damn it. I know I am. So why can't the rest of me go along with it?

Foot of Doom.

Aww, he's so cute. Wait, what's happening with that one foot?? What foot is that IT DOES NOT BELONG.

 

Nothing quite suffices

Last night, we cried on the couch, then popped open some microbrews and laughed at The Wire (because we are morbid) and The Office (because how could we not). Last night, for a few hours, everything felt normal again; until I went to bed and lay in the dark thinking about how the abnormal spots on my brain might look. I wondered if they were there all the time, or if they were growing right then as the clock flashed midnight. I gnawed on what it might mean for me: my life, my family, the future children I intended to have.

I’ve already slipped into the rise and fall of illness, where one moment everything is hilarious and life is whimsical – for me to feel better, the kitten only once needs to run headlong into the window pursuing a bug – and the next I’m wondering if I’ll be able to hike again when we move home, feeling the tears seep above my lower eyelids.

Some people know. Some don’t. That’s how it will stay until we have real answers, which could take weeks or longer to receive.

Life's like an hourglass, glued to the table

I sat at the edge of my chair listening to my doctor speak, or at least looking at her speak, because I'd lost track of the words that came after "it isn't normal."

That's not true. I heard enough. Demyelination, neurology, get in right away did anyone come with you?

Well, no. No one was with me. This was supposed to be routine, the MRI that confirmed my ER trip was just a bad migraine, a cluster headache with a bit of an attitude. Instead, I found myself in my doctor's arms trying not to come apart right there, wondering idly how I'd get home when the rush hour bus meant I'd have to stand for 40 minutes and I couldn't stop my hands from shaking, let alone get my feet under me.

So SG picked me up -- thank God he was home early -- and we drove with our hands clenched together, like our desperate grip was the only thing keeping us from blowing away with the Chicago wind. And we cried, we called family, I emailed my friends. Then we drank, watched bad movies and good tv dramas, because it let the morbid sense of humor come easier. I watched barn swallows sweep across the abandoned courthouse across the way, watched them stop and turn on a dime midair in pursuit of their elusive prey. And now I'm not sure whether I'm the swallow, but life stopped on a dime tonight and spun everything around until I don't know which direction to try next. I'm scared, absolutely petrified, and yet I have to find a way to carry on like everything might end up fine. The alternatives are not something I can contemplate. So maybe I am the swallow, turning and diving and flying faster as dusk encroaches, trying every maneuver in my repertoire to flee the shadows coming on behind me.

Since this photo: Less dirty. More trouble.

Happy first birthday, buddy.

Spinal tapped.

So. Migraine happened. Or we think it was a migraine, but it also might have been something more insidious and foul-tempered, and that’s how I wound up in the hospital until 2 a.m. on Monday morning with an IV in my arm and betadine dripping down my back. Thank god SuperGeneticist was there to hold my hand – or hands, in the case of the spinal tap, as I couldn’t be bothered to do the relaxed breathing or any of the other shite I’m supposed to do when stressed.

 

It’s ok; there’s nothing like five hours in an emergency room to remind you that you never want to visit one again. I can’t really complain, but I’m left now with an MRI for Monday to follow up on some weird spots (what the hell does “non-specific findings” mean anyway??). The best thing for a slightly claustrophobic, slightly anxiety prone person is a ride in the donut.

 

Thankfully, Work is wonderfully supportive, and so I’ve been offered CDs of relaxing music, sleep masks, and tranquilizers to help me through. Needless to say, I shall take them up on all of it. Especially the tranqs.

I think it might be time

It's been about three years since I've blogged regularly. So let's make it clear: this isn't a blog I'm going to share with friends or family. If they find it, I'll be pleased; if they don't, I'll be equally content. If I start writing regularly at all, it's because I'm struggling with something that so many women do these days: how to balance ambition and the need to fulfill one's own expectations with the very real demands of one's body and mind.

I wound up at the ER last night with a sudden onset headache; after five hours, one CT and a spinal tap, they're still not sure what's up. It's most likely a migraine. There's no proof it's linked to stress, just like there was no proof that my thyroid disorder was triggered by it, or my anxiety disorder -- but c'mon. I'm not completely daft over here, though I might act like it most of the time. 

So maybe this is my attempt to be more realistic with myself. I guess we'll see.