Little back story. For three years, I had been experiencing
chronic pain in my right knee, right wrist, right shoulder, and sacrum. My
right side provides stability for the rest of my body, so it gets a lot of wear
and tear. My left side has more dystonia which also causes pain. Some days, the
pain is horrible and some days it’s fine. After three years of guessing what it
is, we discussed the option of an MRI.
Here’s the thing about an MRI. Because of the constant
movement, I would have to be sedated as in completely out. I cannot hold still
for a minute nevertheless for four different scans. This was going to require anesthesia.
On top of that, the medicine for my dystonia is a sedative. This was very
serious. My orthopedic doctor called my neurologist who prescribes my
medication and they both agreed that my body could handle sedation. After that,
game on! I messaged my other doctors and asked what scans they wanted done. I
received four different orders from two different hospitals. Here is the
problem with that. RUSH only takes orders from RUSH and Shirley Ryan hospital
only takes orders from Shirley Ryan. That became the pinnacle of my frustration
because I was the one responsible for communicating everything. This took two
months of calling hospitals. I was going to do it at the Elmhurst Memorial Hospital.
They are great but when you’re dealing with four different doctors and one
hospital who is not affiliated with any of them, your phone is ringing
constantly and it’s so stressful. I was very angry with our health care system.
When you have a complex situation like this, the patient has to do all the work
which is so backwards. Anyway, after eight weeks of at least four phone calls
per week, the day finally came.
“Are you nervous?” Mom asked.
“No. Just want to get it over with.”
We were led back to pre-op. Since I was having anesthesia, I
couldn’t go straight to the MRI department. I had to wait in pre-op. I could
not eat after midnight, so I had a whole serving of Alfred and a slice of
cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory. It was a disgusting amount of food, but
it did the trick. That morning, I asked for ice on my lips before we went to
the hospital. I was that thirsty.
“Date of birth please,” the nurse asked. Liliana, my caregiver,
and Mom didn’t talk for me.
“Six twenty-five ninety,” I replied.
“Let me take your blood pressure. Let me get your vitals.
How tall are you?” The nurse rattled these statements and questions off.
It’s too fast! I cannot type and have all that going on.
You have to slow down.
Knowing that I was flustered, Liliana chimed in, “You need
to slow down and she’s 5’7.”
“OK. So, let’s go over medications.”
After we gave them all my information, the nurse asked me to
take my ring off. It’s been on my finger since the night of high school
graduation. Long story short, I slightly lost my mind and wanted to call the
whole thing off. No. Nobody comes between my jewelry and me.
“Hannah, they are going to have to solder it off. You can have it put back
together,” Mom said.
“This is horrible of them. I love this ring!” I said.
“Well, it’s either this or it gets stuck in the machine,” the
nurse said.
I nodded at the nurse with a whopping amount of irritation
in my eyes. Don’t you know you’re intentionally breaking off a little piece
of my heart? I hadn’t eaten for 16 hours, and I hadn’t taken that ring off
since 2008. Give me a little grace.
It’s going to be a long day of not being heard.
After getting me on the gurney, Mom told Liliana she could
leave.
“Jean, text me about how things are going," Liliana
requested.
“I will.”
The nurse came back in needing to weigh the wheelchair
because I had gotten on the scale in my chair. To determine my weight, they
take the weight of the chair itself and subtract the amount representing when I
sat in it. They subtract the difference, and you get my exact weight. It’s
precise and requires no guessing. This was not a day to guess.
And then we waited…and waited. Mom and I can talk without my
communication device. We talked about how much this sucked, she reassured me my
ring was in my purse, and then we talked about anything and everything we could
think of because we were so bored. The MRI started at 1:00 theoretically but it
was actually 3:30 when it started.
A man came to wheel me to the MRI department. When I
arrived, all I wanted to say was, “Man, I’ve talked to your scheduling
department at least 60 times, I’m ready to get this thing done.” Of course, I
couldn’t because I didn’t have my communication device.
“Hi Hannah, how are you?” One of the techs said.
I nodded my head as if to say, “I’m good.”
Mom spoke up for me. “Hannah is extremely bright, has her master’s,
lives on her own…”
“I assumed so. We don’t assume differently.”
I really liked the MRI department. They were full of young
people who understood that a woman who could not speak did not mean she was
cognitively challenged. Yay! This generation will be different. Hallelujah!
My anesthesiologist Dr. McSteamy, who definitely worked out
on a regular basis, went over how everything would go. He was so nice and patient.
After that conversation, the energy shifted. Thirty seconds later, they transferred
me to the board that goes in the MRI machine. It really hurt because I was
lying flat and because my sacrum hurt (hence this MRI), I asked for a pillow
under my knees. After that, they wheeled me away.
“Bye, brave girl,” Mom said. I waved.
“OK, I need you to breathe in after I put the mask on,” Dr.
McSteamy said. I would breathe and fall asleep.
Damn it, Hannah Thompson, you start deep breathing, and
you wake up on the other side. Breathe, Thompson, just do it so this day can be
over. For the love of all that is holy, take a deep breath.
“She can’t do it.” Dr. McSteamy said.
No, I can’t as lame as that is.
“I’m going to put it in through the IV.
Thank God. Just put me to sleep.
“OK, here it comes…”
I hope this… and I was out.
I opened my eyes to fluorescent lights. The debate… did I
miss it? I had been anticipating the presidential debate for a month.
“Hey. You’re awake,” one of the nurses said. She hadn’t been
my favorite and if I remembered that, all was good.
“Mom?” I managed to say.
“You’ll be here for 10 more minutes then we’ll get you to
post-op.”
When they wheeled me into post-op, I met the smartest nursing
assistant.
“Hey, your parents are coming.” She continued, “Do you want
some water?” as I stared down the cup.
“Absolutely!”
She picked up the cup and let me drink. I was parched.
She pulled the cup away.
“More.” I hadn’t had anything to drink for 12 hours.
“Has it been a long time?”
I nodded with enthusiasm as she gave me Teddy Grahams too.
This woman had an exceptional amount of emotional intelligence to communicate
with me only using my eyes. This makes me hopeful for the next generation of
nurses. That was when my parents walked in.
“Hey! How are you feeling?” Mom asked.
“Good. Sleepy. Ready to watch the debate,” I said as soon as
Dad put me in my wheelchair.
“Thanks for feeding Hannah, she hasn’t eaten since midnight.”
“I figured,” the nursing assistant said.
She was quite remarkable.
After that terrible day, I got Chick-fil-A, went home, and
watched the debate. The MRI results were incredibly disappointing. All they
found was tendonitis and inflammation. The fact that nothing is really wrong is
wonderful, but my doctors didn’t really have solutions to my pain.
