I was going to wait until tomorrow to write this, but I am in “writing mode” and I just have to get this out . . . like a confession.
Yesterday, I got an MRI. I have been experiencing trouble with my neck and cervical radiculopathy for over three years now. This MRI was long overdue, but I am extremely claustrophobic. And so, truthfully, I have tried every alternative therapy in the book (including 20 minute sessions of constant, sharp shocks from electroneedling), for my problem, versus getting another much-needed MRI.
I first discovered my claustrophobia when I was a little girl at an amusement park. My sister and I were on a ride called “The Caterpillar.” The Caterpillar was a circular type of roller coaster that took you round and round, and while this was happening, a tarp-like covering came over the top of the entire roller coaster train. It was dark and musty and so tight that it brushed the top of your head. The olive green tarp would come on and off, and on and off, as the ride was going on and on. Now, I am a thrill seeker. I have loved roller coasters my entire life, but every single time that musty old tarp enclosed us in our small, dark space, I white-knucked the handlebars until my hands were numb. I prayed and prayed that the ride would be over, as we endlessly went round and round with the ominous tarp always threatening to close us in again. When the tarp was off of us, I gasped at the light and the air, like a little newborn bird, like these were my last breaths, before I was buried again, underneath the tarp, trapped in my tiny seat. Needless to say, I never went on that ride or anything like it again.
Claustrophobia brings on instant panic and high levels of anxiety that are hard to explain to others who don’t experience this. It’s hard to be rational when you are in the throes of panic. Before you go into small spaces, you logically and rationally explain to yourself why you are safe, and free, and unlikely to be harmed, but it is astonishing how fast all of that goes out the window, when the familiar, instant terror sets in. All of the breathing exercises, and meditative exercises you have practiced for years, disintegrate into a madness that screams, “Get me out of here!! Get me out of here!!”
I’ve tried to work through this problem of mine. I once decided to bravely take my four small children into a cave tour, in Tennessee, only to start hyperventilating and having to abandon them five minutes in (thankfully, their grandmother took over from there). I’ve had to talk myself off of a cliff in crowded elevators, and yes, I have had a couple previous MRIs that are among some of my most embarrassing memories. One time they had to pull me in and out of the machine so many times, that the radiologist came in, looked at pathetic me, with sad, frustrated eyes and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to happen today.” He stopped short of, “You need help.”
So yesterday, I hyped myself up. I took extra gabapentin (which is prescribed for my neck pain). I whined to my husband. I warned everyone in the entire clinic that I am claustrophobic, and therefore not responsible for my actions. However, this time, I had a new trick up my sleeve. I remembered that at my last “in and out, in and out” MRI, it helped (kind of) to cover my eyes with a towel, so I decided to take that concept up a level.
Years ago, a friend of mine texted a hilarious picture of herself, in her daughter’s pink migraine cap. There is no kinder way to say this, other than a migraine cap looks nothing short of a giant condom on top of your head. It is tight, pink, and it fully covers your eyes, with a notch for your nose. It’s not pretty. It looks fairly ridiculous. But because I suffer from migraines from time to time, I bought one. And I use it. It works. And in the privacy of my own home, no one sees me wearing it (except for my dear husband, whom after more than 30 years together, nothing about me, surprises or shocks him anymore). Yesterday, I already knew that I was likely to embarass myself anyway, so I brought my migraine cap to the clinic. And I put it on, and I asked the technician to lead me to the machine, while I was wearing my head condom, so I wouldn’t have to see the tiny tube I was about to enter. She was kind and accomodating. She did not laugh or call any authorites. I’m not sure if this was a first for her, but I’m pretty sure that I might have made her dinner conversation last night. However, I can proudly say, the technician did not have to pull me in and out of the machine, like a novice, impatient baker who can’t stop opening the oven. I successfully made it through my MRI.
These are the true stories of my life that I have dubbed as “no horse pucky.” (You can find others in the archives of the blog.) It feels good to get them out. The truth is always stranger than fiction.
Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.