We arrived home yesterday afternoon, having accomplished all the Johns Hopkins tests, simulations and mask making that needed to be done. The highlight of the trip was seeing the amazing Liam - Cleo and Jack’s extraordinary six-month-old baby. Some families are lucky. Wonderful parents magically collide with an amazing child and the match is perfect. We saw Liam twice and enjoyed every baby minute.
The downside was experiencing what happens when a couple of IV insertions go wrong and my best calm down techniques are as effective as a sprinkler system during a nuclear power plant melt down. Although I have had four previous MRIs in Ithaca, my knowledge of what they were actually doing was apparently incomplete. Here, after the first round of no-contrast, they slide me out of the machine, head immobilized, vision blocked, and tell me not to move. I remain completely still as I wait patiently, if not totally calmly, while the contrast fluid is inserted.
I was therefore surprised when, while sitting in the blood-drawing chair before the CT scan and MRI, the J.H. technician told me she was going to insert an IV.
“Really,” I said, “they don’t do that in Ithaca.”
“Oh yes, I'm sure they do,” she answered quite assuredly.
“Oh no,” I said with cautious self-confidence. “They just inject the dye with a syringe.”
“That’s not possible,” she replied.
Suddenly it occurred to me that she might be right. I know that the accuracy of the MRI depends on my not moving. In Ithaca, they roll me partially out of the MRI machine, stick me with something sharp that hurts, tell me they are injecting the dye, tell me they are done, remove whatever it is that hurts, and roll me back in for more clanging and banging. It seems I have imagined what they were doing but didn’t know it.
The first IV insertion did not stop hurting, a sign that it was not right. “Sorry,” she said, “we’ll try again.” The second time hurt, but not as much. “Good,” she said, “this one is in right.” Then there was something about flushing, and I looked for a minute, which I never do and was not a good idea.
I told her my stomach was getting upset. Unfortunately, my calm self could not make it go away and my not so calm self had other ideas. It is incredible how many things we can think simultaneously:
1. Just breathe calmly; this will pass . . .
2. It’s good this is happening in a hospital; they know what to do here . . .
3. This is how supposedly simple things go really wrong . . .
4. It sounds like the alarm in a fire station is going off . . .
5. It certainly is quiet in here . . .
6. I don’t like how this feels . . .
7. I wonder why I can’t make this stop . . .
8. I don’t want to cause any drama . . .
“I'm leaving," I said, metaphorically.
“Oh no,” she replied, “don’t leave, keep your eyes on me. Don't close your eyes. I have to check to see if your blood pressure is too high.”
“No,” I managed to breathe out, “too low.” This time I was right.
No more details, but after some time and further disruption I came back, metaphorically speaking. A third, successful IV was started, and tests resumed. They molded an immobilization mask that I wore for the CT scan and MRI. It will be used in a couple of weeks for CyberKnife radiation treatment. It somehow bolts to the table (I will not pretend to know how) and is so tightly fitted that the grid imprint on my forehead would have gained me entry onto the Star Trek Voyager. When this is done I get to take the mask home. Perhaps I can use it as a hanging planter.
With love,
Karen
