No, I am not freaking "okay"

It took a week of anxious waiting to get my pathology results back.  A nurse had to follow-up with questions and translate the answers back to me before my surgeon's explanation that the tumors were cancer finally sunk in with me.  I began to meet with oncologists who specialized in radiation and chemotherapy to discuss potential treatment plans.  I was still in the neurosurgery ICU, my legs still not working, my doctors juggling the delicate task of balancing my need to stop bleeding and start healing from surgery with the need to prevent my blood from forming dangerous clots.  One morning they came in and told me I would be having another MRI, to give radiation a good baseline set of post-surgery images to plan their treatment from.  The instant they told me this I began to feel nauseous.  I cancelled my lunch tray, knowing I would not do well with all that anxiety if I had a stomach full of food.  The following is an account of my MRI experience, showing just how claustrophobic and anxious I have become.

They give me zofran (for nausea) and 10mg of Valium before I leave my room.  I have skipped lunch in order to not have a stomach full of food when they take me down to the MRI.  When we reach the prep room where I'm transferred to the scanning table, I am already crying, half from the anxiety about the upcoming claustrophobic nightmare, half from bitter anger at myself for letting my own mind put me in this state every damn time.  They put my head in the hard little cradle and try to put a wedge under my knees to prevent the painful, picture-interrupting spasms that randomly plague my legs and feet. 

I am relieved to hear that I will not be required to wear the panic-inducing face mask used in cervical scans, as this one is just thoracic.  Until I get in front of the machine and the tech tells me he gets better pictures with the mask on.  I politely inform him that it's out of the question, and he decides we can see how good the pictures look and then if necessary convince me to put the horrid mask on.  I am not told how many minutes this will take, although I ask ("As short as we can possibly make it," they dodge).  A little last minute positioning, earplugs put in, and we get started.  

The tight machine crushes my arms against my body, and immediately the soundwaves bombarding me begin to elevate my body temperature.  This is "normal," which I guess is supposed to mean it shouldn't terrify me and make me feel that I am steadily roasting in a tiny coffin.  Within minutes I am silently begging for it to be over, but I hold on as long as I can possibly stand it.  An unknown amount of time that is at least 30 minutes goes by, as much as I can guess by the elapsed time later, and when I can't stand it anymore I start asking them to let me out.  

The pinching of the walls against my arms has made my hands go numb, and I am terrified that too many minutes this way will cause permanent nerve damage of the kind I already have so much of in my body.  I feel like I'm on fire. I MUST get out.  In the silences between each set of picture-taking noises I plead with them to let me out. No one answers.  I call out that I'm much too hot, that I can't feel my hands, that I can't take it anymore, raising my voice louder and louder.  I suddenly realize they have forgotten to give me the panic button, and that probably no one can hear me at all.  That is when I start screaming, and trying desperately to move my stupid legs which are the only things they can see sticking out of the machine, and I am still screaming when they come in to administer the contrast dye and realize that something's wrong. 

To his credit, the tech apologizes profusely for forgetting to give me the panic button and repeats at least half a dozen times that the rise in body temperature is normal, and holds my hand until I can feel it again.  I am sobbing and trying to get my lungs to just inhale and exhale in some kind of pattern that will keep me conscious.  They have summoned my nurse to drug me up more so I can make it through the 13 minute, 11 second contrast dye session.  Atavan, or something like that.  The tech wants to know if I'm going to be okay.  I tell him no, I am not okay, but we have to finish and he swears it's only 15 minutes...  I get calmed down and they give me the contrast so we can start again. My legs are getting spastic, my baclofen (anti-spasm med) has apparently warn off.  So despite the Atavan and my resolve to make it through to the end (I count seconds for almost every one of those 14 minutes) the spasms in my legs probably ruined half the contrast pictures anyway.  But apologetic techman assures me the first round of pictures (despite my freaked out hollering) look really clear and are of great quality.  

When it's over I'm drained and ashamed. I hate that I have this weakness, this total inability to cope with what is going to be a very frequent procedure in my fight with cancer.  I am low enough to want to ask one of them, any of the staff milling around transferring me from the scan table to my bed, taking in the next patient, telling someone to get Transport down here to take me back to my room, to please hug me, I just really need a hug, but I say nothing, except to ask for some Kleenex.  "These are not the hugs you're looking for," Obi-Wan says in my head, and he's right. My hugs -hubby and the kids- will come see me tomorrow.