I tried to keep posted on FaceBook about
this myelogram. Put up some photos of
key places we saw (country roads and stop
signs and billboards advertising my age) and burning questions that kept
forcing their way to the surface despite all efforts to hold them back (Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Loved the answer I got from Kenny, one of the
fire fighters:”If you ask one more time I’m going to turn this car around.” Brought back a few memories), each
accompanied by whatever sight was on the horizon at the time. Very helpful for those who really wanted to
go with us but couldn’t make the journey.
Once we got inside St. Luke’s in Houston, however, it was a bit more difficult
to post things, though certainly more exciting.
Once inside we made our way past the
hospital’s in-house McDonalds. Always
gives me a chuckle when I think about that. Bastion of health and well-being hosting
poster child for, well … let’s just say food that isn’t the best for your
health. We have spent many hours inside
this place for me, Mom, and Chris’ Mom, so we kind of knew our way around. We checked in at the registration desk and
were handed something totally unexpected.
Truly one of those fascinating new innovations in medical marvelry. Those of you who saw the picture understand
when I tell you … they handed me a taser.
No, really. It had the little
electrodes on the end and everything. I
was mystified. What could they possibly be
planning behind those doors that would require me to have a weapon? They must have noted my consternation. One of them hastened to explained that the
taser (no, she didn’t call it that. I just didn’t want you to get confused)
was actually one of those devices like you get at Shrimp n Stuff that buzzes
when your order is ready. I wasn’t too
sure that I wanted to be holding a taser when it was remotely activated, but I agreed
to take it and find a seat.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long before
our taser buzzed. My hand didn’t go numb
or anything, so I guess they have indeed found a peacetime use for weapons
technology. The call was not for the
test though. Oh. No. We can’t go “back there” until we get you
registered. It doesn’t matter that you
spent half an hour on the phone the night before registering. There was that one key blank they needed to
fill in. “Cash or credit card.” Fortunately the Discover Card company has
been close friends for years. Well, I guess
“friend” is not the word, but we have had enough of a relationship with them
that they agreed to front us the $750.
The fellow registering us was fine with that. As he took our card – and our taser - I leaned
back in my chair, trying to get comfortable, or as close to it as a sore back
and empty wallet would allow. As I stretched
I noticed a sign on a door off to our left.
Now I have to say that yes, I was nervous about this procedure. I have had several myelograms before, and
every one has turned out, well … painful.
Very painful. I understand that
there is no other way to proceed, however.
Anyway, the sign on the door gave me every reason to relax just a bit
and know that I was in good hands at this hospital. Oh, what did it say? “Epic Training Room.” Now come on.
If these guys train in the Epic Training Room, they have to be good,
right?
Finally the call came for us to head to the
holding area. That’s hospital code for
take all your clothes off and put the infamous hospital gown on. Nurse Paula warned me that there were no
strings on the back to tie. Just three
arm holes. Wait. Three armholes? Where did they take us? For the briefest of moments I really wanted
my taser back. But Chris reassured me
that she would help figure out the alien technology. It took me a while, but I finally located all
three armholes and made my way into the costume, looping one arm through
twice. Hey, I guess it’s better than all
those shoestrings they used to have. I
did my quick-ish change and crawled into the bed. Sitting at the foot was one of those heated
blankets. They must have been expecting
me. Or else this was a ploy to get me to
relax and let down my defenses. But a
warm blanket. It felt nice. My older, quite loving, and well-meaning
brother offered this advice: “Warm
blanket is OK. If it’s warm and wet,
change your diaper.” See what I had
to live with as a middle child? Thanks
so much, Jay. I did appreciate the
chuckle, though. I suppose the rest of
my time in the holding tank would have been pleasant enough, but there was a
screamer. A young girl several curtains
down periodically screamed. Not that she
was in pain. She just didn’t want to be
left alone. I’m sure she was pretty
scared. I prayed for her a lot. They finally decided to change whatever
procedure they were going to do to the operating theater so they could sedate
her. Good choice.
I guess at some point I have to speak to
the actual test, right? For those of you
out there who may be struggling with whether or not to have one of these. A cute little radiology tech who I’ll call M.T.
(I can’t remember her real name, but the
initials will become self-explanatory later) came to get me and wheeled me
away from holding to the x-ray room. There
I had to roll over on my stomach with my arms in front of me, never a comfortable
position for me, even without a bad back.
M.T. was soothing, though, and talked me through the whole thing. She cleaned the area thoroughly, wiping the betadine
in an ever-increasing circular motion from the target area and slowly
outward. The doctor arrived and talked
me through what he was about to do, warning about the dreaded possible after-effects
(headaches, severe cramps, all the really
fun ones). He concluded his speech
with, “That’s all normal. They will all
go away eventually.” Great. What a fun experience to look forward
to. M.T. stepped in and softened the
blow somewhat, reassuring me over and over.
I guess I must have looked a bit stressed. The needle work finally began. The first one was the numbing medicine, not a
problem. Tiny stick. Next came the actual needle into the spine. Not sure what all was going on, but it seemed
to take forever. I could feel pressure
as he pushed in, and then he snagged a nerve and … it hurt. And another … it hurt. I tried to stay quiet, but my anguished
groans must have become audible. M.T.
came over and gently ribbed my arm, assuring me that it was almost over. It was amazing how much that simple pressure on
my arm helped when he nailed another and another nerve. It gave my brain some sensory experience to
focus on other than what was happening behind me. Finally he began the dye injection. Very strange feeling there. Cold and pressure are the two descriptions
that come to mind. The sensation spread
from my back down into my rear and my legs.
Kind of soothing, actually.
Finally he announced he was done.
Well, except for putting lots of pressure on the sight. “We have to stop any oozing,” he explained. He was kind of surprised when I answered, “Well,
no. We can’t have any oozing.” They both laughed nervously. So I guess it
broke the tension somewhat. Or they were
nervous about what they knew was about to happen when I rolled back onto the
bed. That’s when the real pain
started. This time it was the cramps
down my back into my rear end and legs.
Pretty difficult to handle. M.T.
was right there, though. She told me I could
get on my side if that helped. I tried
it. Not a whole lot better, but
some. And then she did something I never
expected. She started massaging my legs
and back. And it was helping. I told her the massage was quite the surprise. She matter-of-factly explained that her
boyfriend was a football player and got cramps all the time. I think maybe I had just experienced one of
those trainees from the Epic Training Room.
St. Luke’s Hospital, keep up that Massage Tech (M.T.!!) program. It is working.
After a few minutes that seemed like an
hour, the cramps subsided enough to be bearable, so we headed over to the CT
room, where M.T. handed me off to the one who would do that test. She promised that she would go check in Chris
for me. Hated to see her go. The CT was a piece of cake. It was harder to get from bed to bed than it
was to endure the scan. It only took
five or ten minutes, and I was headed back to the holding room for another hour
stay. My discharge instructions included
three commands from the doctor:
1. Increase your caffeine intake. No, really.
He said that. Drink more coffee,
tea, anything with caffeine. Helps close
the tiny little hole he stuck in my spine.
2. Stay flat in bed
with your head slightly raised for the next 24 hours. The head raised part was to prevent any dye
from getting into my brain. That has
happened to me before. It will not
happen again. I will obey.
3. Do nothing for the
next three day. Lay around the house. Watch TV.
If your head starts hurting, go lie down. It means the hole isn’t closed up yet.
I promised to follow orders, with Chris
standing over me with a stick of course, so the discharge was approved. We got our car out of its holding area and
headed home in the rain. At four o’clock. In Houston traffic. Made worse by the ongoing police investigation
of the bus accident. But we made
it. Chris is one outstanding chauffeur.
So there you have it. The Myelogram Mission 2015 is complete. Now we wait for the surgeon’s office to call
and schedule a review of the results.
Today my back is really sore, but still no headaches. Chris and I are supposed to start our dance
classes this morning. I think we may go,
but I apologized beforehand for not being able to dip her on the tango. I think we may do a lot of watching. Besides, we have to get my new hearing aids
at 11:00, so we have to leave early anyway.
Life is so awesome. And so ...
ongoing. Not really sure what’s next,
but hey … bring it on.
2 Peter 1:3 says, “His divine power has given us everything we need for life and
godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and
goodness.”
Father, thank you for the true miracles that
you have revealed to modern medicine.
And thanks even more for the miracle of human touch at a time of high
stress. M.T. was surely an angel in
disguise. Bless her mightily and draw
her to you. Amen.
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