Into the Unknown

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.

Three weeks of rest, whilst on the road in Plan B, should help.  Right? (We Be Trippin')

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.

I thought of my hubby, of course.  (Prince Charming) The adventures we’ve been on.  The laughs we share.  I thought of his quick wit that catches me off guard but makes me laugh uncontrollably.  

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. 

I thought of my son.  My Disney traveling companion.  And how much fun we’re going to have on our next trip.  Just 200-and-something days to go.  And what kind of Magic Band he’ll choose.  Really?  Yes, really!

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.