It was almost 6:00 pm when we arrived at the neurologist’s office on Monday, May 23, 2022. We were still in the middle of the thunderstorm, and it was pouring when we parked. The medical campus for the practice was huge, spanning several buildings with multiple entrances. Not knowing where to go, we parked near an entrance where a few employees were watching the storm. We didn’t have far to go from the car to the door, but it didn’t matter. The raindrops were huge, water was rushing across the parking lot and even though it was early evening, lightning lit the sky that was so dark it might as well have been midnight. I couldn’t run, so the best I could do was a brisk walk. Not good in the middle of what felt like a tropical storm. My husband held my hand and the umbrella the whole way, so by the time we reached the entrance we were soaked. And I do mean soaked. Thanks to the wind, the only thing the umbrella protected was the top of our heads. I remember looking down at my blue jeans and they were a darker color than they should have been because of the water. My socks and my Converse were squishy, and I could hear them with every step I took. My husband was worse. With khaki-colored work pants on, he looked like he had just walked out of a lake. I remember both of us laughing when we made it through the door. A welcome sound to each of us from the other.

Of all the entrances on the medical campus, of course we chose the employee-only one. Thankfully, one of the staff members stopped us before we headed back into the storm and offered to let us in one of the locked doors. As we walked through with her, she asked where we were going. When I told her the doctor’s name, she responded with “you must be Quincy. We were waiting for you.” We walked in and started the check-in process, and within a few minutes, we were in the exam room with the neurologist.

We first talked about my symptoms, when and how everything started, and what I was feeling currently. Then we started the physical tests. “Walk down the hallway, turn around, and come back.” Easy to do when you had been perfecting the numb leg walk for a few weeks. “Walk down the hallway faster, turn around, and come back.” Kinda easy, except for the part when I turned around and had to use the wall to catch myself. “Walk down the hallway as fast as you can without running, turn around, and come back.” Woah. I turned around and almost face-planted into the wall. “Go to the end of the hallway, face me, and walk toe to heel towards me.” Thank God I was never pulled over for suspicion of drunk driving and forced to do this road test. I would have been arrested. I couldn’t get two steps down the hallway without having to step out to gain my balance. Lovely. “Close your eyes and lift your right leg.” Nope, couldn’t do it. Same for the left. I had no balance at all, and even with my eyes open, I still couldn’t do it without almost tipping over. “Close your eyes, put your arms out to each side, and touch your finger to your nose, one hand at a time.” My brain was telling my hands what to do, and I just knew they were heading in the right direction, but when I finished, I felt my finger touching my cheek. I tried again, this time it touched my lip. The last time it touched my chin. Dammit. I’m not going to lie. This one scared me. At that exact moment, I remembered an episode of ER when Dr. Greene tried to stick his tongue out straight, and it would only go to the side. He had brain cancer. All these years later, I still remember that episode, and that’s what popped into my head.

After the health questions and physical tests, the doctor sat down with us and wanted to schedule an MRI as soon as possible. Crap. Not what I wanted to hear. Remember my previous post about my crippling anxiety and panic attacks? I can barely get my hair cut or pick my kids up in carpool. How on earth am I going to handle having my head locked in a cage and sent into a tunnel where I can’t move? It seriously stresses me out typing about it. The doctor asked if 7 o’clock would work and I agreed. I was thinking, okay, I can get out of here and have an evening to calm down, prepare, and then come back in the morning for the torture. Sure, I can do that. I just wanted to get out of there, to leave the confines of the room we were sitting in, to talk to my husband about what was going on, to have a chance to breathe and collect my thoughts. I wanted to go home, take my wet clothes off and soak in a hot bath before putting on pajamas and climbing under the covers to hide until morning. I could hear the doctor talking to my husband, and it was then that I realized I was having an emergency MRI in less than an hour. It was a 7:00 pm appointment, not a morning one. My heart started racing, I was sweating and started shaking. It didn’t help when he explained I would be in the machine for about 2 hours since they needed to do a scan of my brain and spine both without contrast and with contrast (basically, a lovely solution administered via IV that enhances details on the scan. It can cause nausea, headaches, and dizziness. Yay me.)

We had enough time to get something to eat, (him, not me. Food was the last thing on my mind, but bless my husband’s heart, he can always eat), call my parents and give them an update on what was happening, and get me medicated. Yep, the nurse helped me figure out the best doses to make the experience as easy as possible. We staggered my meds so they wouldn’t wear off while I was in the machine. Shortly before they came to get me, I headed to the restroom one last time. As I walked in, one of the staff members that checked me in earlier in the evening was heading out. I can’t even imagine what I looked like. I was still wet from the storm, I had been crying off, and on all afternoon, and I was so very scared. The MRI was bad enough, but what then? What was wrong with me? As I turned to walk into a stall, she asked if she could pray for me. The only word I could get out was “please.” I honestly don’t remember what she said, but I remember thinking in that moment, how thankful I was for her words. I see her from time to time at the doctor’s office, and I have wanted to tell her how much it meant to me that she did that, but I still haven’t.

By the time the technician came to get me, my anxiety medicine had kicked in and I was a calm catastrophe. I remember walking down the hallway and feeling like I was underwater. I could move my arms and legs, but everything was in slow motion. In other words, I was as high as a kite. It sounds bad, but that was the only way they would get me in the MRI machine (and is still the only way I can get through it.) I changed my clothes, took off all my jewelry and walked with the tech in the exam room. I laid down on the table that would slide into the MRI tube, and they hooked up the IV for the contrast that they would start in about an hour. Typically, you can have the option of music during the scan, but on this particular day it was not working, so it was just earplugs for me. No problem. I had the pounding of my heart to listen to, which was currently speeding up to go with the shaking that was ramping up all over my body. I don’t think I would have noticed music playing anyway. They placed the coil around my head (let’s call it what it really is. A head cage. Basically, a football helmet to keep you still and get better images. Not stressful at all). I closed my eyes and tried to think of something, anything to distract me. The technicians talked me through everything, and once they made sure I was ready, they handed me the panic button and I was pushed into the machine to begin. Here we go…

If you have never had an MRI, nothing can prepare you for it, especially if you have claustrophobia or anxiety. I have seen people have them in movies, and television shows, but until you are pushed into the magnetic tunnel of death, you just don’t get it. I was upset, exhausted, in pain, anxious, on the verge of a panic attack, heavily medicated, and not sure what was wrong with me. I was pushed into the tunnel with my head trapped in a cage to lay still for an hour. Then I was pulled out, injected with gadolinium through an IV, and then pushed back in for the contrast scan for the next hour. It was absolute hell. Some people may agree, and some may not (I have a friend that slept through one), but that’s just my take on it. Absolute hell.

I faintly remember getting dressed and walking with the technician back to the waiting room. He told me along the way that my husband kept checking in on how I was doing, and I found out later he would call my mom with updates. He’s a keeper. I need to remember things like this when I yell at him for not knowing how to use a clothes hamper. We were scheduled to meet with the doctor at 11:00 am the next day for the results. By far, one of the longest and worst nights we have ever had.