In October, shortly before we took Plan B out for a three-week adventure along the Gulf Coast, I had a familiar pain in my arm. A stabbing pain that briefly shot through my bicep.
I’d felt a similar pain such as this before. Roughly six years ago. A pain that resulted in increasing pain and
the increasing inability to raise my right arm without the assistance of my
left. A pain that ended with a visit to
an orthopedic surgeon.
The diagnosis, according to the good doctor: I was old.
Some bedside manner, huh?
What he meant, though, was that after 25 years of riding a
desk and ‘mousing’ with my dominant (right) hand, my shoulder was suffering
from over-use.
An MRI revealed I had a whole lotta of stuff going on in there: bursitis, tendonitis, arthritis, and a small rotator-cuff tear. The chief culprit of my pain, bursitis, treated with a steroid injection. And I was good as new.
I’ve had trouble with that same shoulder throughout the
years. Usually, nerves firing within my
upper scap (ie., my shoulder blade).
And usually something that could be resolved with a trip to
my massage therapist. Failing that, a
few visits with an Airrosti doc and his gigantic paws would have all the kinks
worked out.
But this time. It was
similar to the jolt in my bicep which I experienced many years ago.
I waited for the pain to increase. For my arm to hang at my side, lest the
slightest movement in the upward direction bring me to my knees. But that never happened.
Well, no, actually. That
didn’t help at all.
What did happen, was an increase in the sound that my shoulder made. A clicking sound. Shoulders aren’t supposed to do that. The sound was accompanied by an uncomfortable movement beneath my skin. One that my oldest granddaughter described as my “bones separating”.
“Grams”, she said, “you should tell your doctor that I
said your bones were separating and they’re not supposed to do that. When you get home, you should call him and
tell him I said that. So that he
knows.” She’s six.
The pain began to migrate.
From one part of my arm to another.
From my carpal tunnel, to my forearm.
From my bicep (in two places) to my neck. From my shoulder joint to my upper and
lower scapula.
Yeah. Something’s not
right.
Again, I try massage.
And three visits with the Airrosti doc.
And then a referral to an orthopedic surgeon. Where he says, the x-rays are inconclusive. He can see arthritis on my
shoulder joint (either the ball of my shoulder, the ball joint, or both). But he can’t see much more. Into the tube I must go.
MRIs are uncomfortable for a lot of people. Because Claustrophobia.
I’ve never considered myself to be claustrophobic. As a child, I loved being in tight
spaces. Perhaps as an extension of being
swaddled as a baby.
As a toddler and then a young child, I loved going to the
grocery store with my mom. During the
winter, as I sat in the cart, I would surround myself with both my mom’s coat
and my own. Snuggled in, comfy.
In the summer months, as mom was loading the basket, I would
take items from the cart and surround myself with them. Stacking bread and canned goods all around
me. But never the eggs. For some reason,
mom wouldn’t allow me to hold them.
One of my favorite hiding places, when my sister and I
played hide and seek: the laundry
bin. Also the first place my sister knew
to look for me.
So the first time I had an MRI, it wasn’t a big deal. I relaxed, zoned out, and simply looked
forward to finding out what was going on with my shoulder (six years ago).
But this time, it was a little different.
I tried not to think about my pending entombment. But I couldn’t help but think of my mom and
her claustrophobia. And I began to
wonder if I had any form of medication that I might take to help me relax. Benadryl?
Melatonin? Xanax?
As the tech took me into the room, the MRI machine (I’m sure there’s a more technical name for it) sat there. Staring at me. With its one big, open eye.
The room was dark, except for the light that emitted from
the machine. The light that beckoned
me. Come into the light.
The tech situated my shoulder just so. Encasing it as they do, in a frame meant to
keep you from moving. And then she
strapped me in. WHAT? I don’t remember this before. And I certainly didn’t sign up for it!
My claustrophobia increasing in intensity.
She offered a sleep mask, which I gladly accepted. And continued to make adjustments and add
other implements to stabilize my arm.
She tucked earplugs into my ears.
And placed headphones on me.
Yea! I thought. Music!
But no. It was simply for the
purpose of her communicating with me.
Finally, she placed my Life Alert in my hand. A small bulb which I could squeeze in the
event I needed to be exhumed from the tomb … er … machine. I wrapped my sweaty palm around the bulb.
She placed her hand on top of mine. Comforting me in a way I didn’t realize I
needed.
In we go.
There were a series of scans. Two minutes. Three and a half minutes. Two and a half minutes. Thirty seconds. Another three and a half
minutes. And so on.
While in the chamber of doom, I tried to find my happy
place. Despite the VERY loud whirring
and clicking of the machine.
Last week, when we heard reports of President Trump coming to South
Texas, I asked, “What on earth is he coming to Texas for?” To which Keith
responded, “Shouldn’t he be busy packing?”
And the tech says, into my headphones, “don’t move”. Oops.
Was I laughing?
I thought of my grandchildren. My beautiful and opinionated
Pumpkin-Girl. My rough-and-tumble,
all-boy Man-Cub. And my tough-as-nails
and cute as a bug, Bean.
I thought of my mom.
And her claustrophobia. I opened
my eyes beneath my mask and could see the white light. No!
Shut your eyes! And don’t think
about your mom and her claustrophobia.
I thought of being on an island. With sugary-white beaches, surrounded by beautiful blue water. A cold, adult beverage in hand. I thought of our girls’ trip to Panama and San Blas. (Welcome to the Jungle).
Is it me, or is my backside getting really warm?
I kept thinking, “go to your happy place, go to your happy
place”. And then I gasped for air,
taking a deep breath. Did I forget to
breathe?
The tech: “Don’t move, Mrs. Miller.”
I thought of Walt Disney World. And the feelings the fill my
heart when I walk onto Main Street, USA. (It Was All Started by a Mouse).
And I wondered what other people think about when they’re
having an MRI.
Magic Bands. I’m so
glad I remembered to take my watch off.
How much longer is this going to last?
I thought of lifelong friends. The ones who have been there every step of
the way. And the ones who have found
their way back into my life. And I miss
Debbie.
Why is my arm numb?
Is that normal?
And finally. The whirring stops. And in my ear. Finally. The tech says, “we’re all done.”
It was the longest 15 minutes of my life.
She removes all the implements that are holding me still. And gifts me with the sleep mask.
Before I leave, I turn and look into the MRI machine. The tiny space from which I’ve just been
removed. It’s bright light still
illuminating the room.
Not today, Satan. Not
today.