MRI 12:50pm – Brain Scan with and without Contrast

Today started well, as far as mornings go. I woke up just before 7am, with pain maybe in the 5 out of 10 range, thanks to a middle of the night dose of ibuprofen again. My morning medicine quickly brought me to normal again, and I used the advantage to watch movies with the kids in bed. I had a Zoom call for work at 10am and so we took pleasure indulging in low quality movies on Prime Video until then.

After showering and dressing myself, the 1.5 video call went smoothly enough. It was good to see my colleagues and officially handoff some of my duties, but I felt like the entire call transpired in slow motion. Mandi was away at a nail appointment for a portion of the morning, and then stopped by Target to pick up some new-school-year shoes for Bode. Our mornings converged at the point when we were ready to leave for my MRI appointment.

The appointment today was at Rolling Oaks imaging in Oxnard off of Rice and Gonzalez rd. I had been there before to do my shoulder and cervical spine X Ray, back when my biggest concern was that I had early onset arthritis in my neck. Each time I enter these facilities I tend to see the same demographic: elderly, infirm, wheelchair bound, hunchback, on Oxygen tanks. Especially at the pulmonologist. Today was no exception; making a sprint from the ramp way to the lobby doors, I handily beat everyone else to the front of the line and checked into the front desk with ease, having already filled out the registration forms electronically. Damn, I’m getting really good at this. Mandi and I got to spend just a few minutes engaged in one of our favorite activities (people watching) before my name was called. I was tired already for this time of the day, but I rose up, I kissed Mandi goodbye, and Summer brought me behind the office doors to the place where the magic happens.

Summer was a young woman, late twenties I thought, though I am perhaps a poor judge of age in these situations. She was very slender and pale with dark hair and lots of tattoos visible wherever her scrubs didn’t conceal them. She had a very casual and familiar energy about her, which my normal self would have appreciated very much. On this particular day it cost me extra energy to make up the difference, and so despite her being a sweetheart, I was left slightly annoyed. *Why is she so happy?* I thought to myself while some other part of me answered *Don’t be an asshole!* I managed a smile back at her greetings and questions through semi-automated responses. “Should I let you use the restroom before we get started?” Summer cheerily offered. Yep. I nodded. The answer to that question was always yes lately. Drinking lots of water to flush all the chemicals through your body has that effect. Combine it with being in pain or cold and not wanting to move from your comfortable spot and you have a recipe for constant disappointment. I stopped by the restroom and reunited with Summer who had already started to lead the way to the back of the building. We passed room after room, not stopping at any of them. Hung a left and passed some more, then down a darkening hallway. Where the hell are we going? Summer flashed a key fob at a pad on the wall and pushed through the door. All of a sudden we were flooded with an incredible light from the room beyond. Almost blinding…it was daylight. We were outside for some reason, but the reason quickly became apparent as she turned the corner and I saw a trailer with RadNet Imaging Network printed on the side. I had noticed these on the drive into the parking lot, but never imagined that they contained millions of dollars in medical equipment. I thought maybe they were storage containers for extra catheters or something. Dead wrong. She walked me up the steps finally breaking her silence “Welcome to your private suite!” So cheery.

Once we were inside she asked me to empty all of my pockets and metal, and then began to explain the procedure, suddenly all business. I actually appreciated the transition to lower energy. “You’ll lie down here and I’ll slide you into the machine. You will hear lots of loud sounds, here take these.” She handed me two earplugs and I gave her the “yeah I know the drill” nod. She continued, “You will spend about 15 minutes in the machine, and then I’ll pull you out again. Then we will inject this contrast into your arm and put you back in the machine for 10 more minutes. Any questions?” I responded “No, I’m all good”, and with that pleaded with her to move it along. She placed my head into some kind of bowl designed to hold human heads in place, then shoved foam pads into the area between the head brace and my ears. Combined with the earplugs it made for a pretty good sound dampener. I could barely hear her explaining the purpose as she shoved them in. Next she snapped some kind of plastic face shield on that I could only describe as resembling the face shield of a medieval knight’s helmet, had it been made of spare medical equipment. She handed me a small rubber balloon hand pump and told me to squeeze it if I needed to come out of the machine, and with that she disappeared from view. I felt myself sliding upward, head first into the medical tomb.

Now, for those of you who have had an MRI before, you will be familiar with the things I have described here. Of course, all procedures, and even machines are a little bit different, so experience varies, but from those I have spoken to my experience seems to be somewhat standard. I included a photo of an MRI machine in this post, but it was not the actual MRI that I sat in this afternoon. In fact, I’m almost certain that mine was a smaller opening, and not as nice or new. This is the first principle of an MRI experience. Extreme claustrophobic space. I am not particularly claustrophobic, but if I was this would most certainly be a problem. What does make these problematic for me right now is that my breathing can be labored or difficult at times, especially lying flat on my back as I am forced to do in the MRI machine. The feeling of lacking oxygen, combined with the confined space and restrained head/face, arms, torso can make for a terrifying experience. I took deep controlled breaths the entire time, my eyes shut so as to pretend that I had plenty of space in front of me, and not the six inches or so that I actually had. The second trademark of the MRI experience, is the sound. Despite the layers of sound dampening I was wearing, the noise that machine makes is belligerent. And the reason for the exact sounds that are emitted are a mystery that I cannot understand. The noise is somewhat like having a one-sided argument with a drunk and very loud fax machine, where you cannot get a single word in edgewise. Truthfully, it felt like I was in there for 30 minutes when Summer pulled me out. She said it had been 12. “Ok, time for the contrast. Which arm would you prefer?” I had been stuck so many times recently the question held no meaning to me. I shrugged and told her “Veins are all good.” It’s a point of pride when I go to the hospital or meet a phlebotomist, they always say I have good veins, and I try. It’s a side effect of regular weight lifting, and one that comes in handy when people desire to stick you with needles constantly. She chose the left arm, and made quick work of placing the needle into my vein, and then slowly pushed the contrast. “You may taste something metallic, and it might get a little cold”. Oh for Pete’s sake. I don’t need to be any more cold. She had already made me remove my light jacket before coming into the machine, and the last twelve minutes had already zapped my heat. I braced for a wave of chill that never came. Instead, a different sensation. I made a face. “How are you doing?”, Summer asked. “Nauseated”, I replied. I was still strapped into my face shield and head brace thingy. I felt that familiar rush of saliva and thought to myself *you will NOT throw up*, as if I would just will it away. What a mess it would be in my current position. Couldn’t turn my head to the side, couldn’t sit up. It would have looked like a vomit fountain. I struggled to think of anything but that, and after a moment, it seemed to have passed. Summer must have seen the change in my face and just said “You good?” adding a quizzical thumbs-up. “Yeah, I’m good now”, or at least I thought I would be. Honestly I just needed to get on with it. She said the last portion would only be six short minutes, which sounded too good to be true, but if I got sick during those six minutes, it wouldn’t matter how short they were. She slid me back up into that ultra-confined tube, and I swallowed my fear until the test was over.

I walked out of the MRI center completely exhausted, and happy to be back in my jacket, and sitting shotgun in my own car. The test is another STAT, so I should expect the results within 24-48 hours, but they have traditionally come faster than that. I came home and tried to rest a bit, with the kids on either side of me in my favorite sofa spot.

What’s Next?

So now we wait again, our last test before setting a surgery date. Still some unknowns causing anxiety in the background. My biggest one lately? The doctors will want me to stop taking ibuprofen as many as 7 days before a surgery, though it could be less. If you have ready my other posts, you will understand that ibuprofen keeps me walking upright every day and keeps me breathing normally at night. The last time that I went without ibuprofen was when I stayed at the hospital on heavy drugs around the clock, and I still never felt as normal or good as I did leaving the hospital and taking three Advil a day. What will become of me over even a three day stretch of no Advil, and no hospital grade IV painkillers? I am loathe to find out.

And then, there are just the thoughts that creep in while I am trying to live my normal day. Today it was the realization that I now know why, for months, I was constantly yawning during story time with Bode and Scarlett. Every single time I read them a book, or told them a story, in a specific position lying on Bode’s bed, my lungs not getting the inflation they needed, I would yawn. Three, six, nine times over the course of a few minutes. Is that alarming? I didn’t think so. It was the end of the day, and I was tired. Could anyone begrudge me a little yawn? I noticed it tonight, while reading Bode a few chapters of Captain Underpants before bed, except my yawns have now been replaced by an outright struggle to fill my lungs. But these were clues. These and so many other things that I just didn’t see. Couldn’t see, while I was trying to keep up with my life lived at full speed.

Would I live my life any differently though? It’s hard to say. Mandi and I always talk about our tendency to add more and more to our already busy lives. Another sport’s practice for the kids, another investment property, another volunteer opportunity, another workout circuit, another job, another dog, another….it’s never-ending. But sometimes it’s hard to tell if that’s some toxic and self-sabotaging thing that we do, or if that’s just us? Truth be told, we aren’t satisfied with “calm” and we do like to be busy. We love the challenge and the chasing of goals and even the problem solving. And it’s because at the end of the day, we like to WIN. And you can’t win if you don’t play. And as strange as it seems, even this battle with cancer has an element of that to it. I would even venture to say that if you removed the threat of mortal danger from the stakes, we would enjoy WINNING against this too. I am so proud of Mandi and how she has played her hand in this new and grim game, and soon it will be time for me to play mine.

I am struck each day by the amount of people that are reading these words, and that are interested in following this journey. Your messages are encouraging, and the concern and support has been overwhelming. But I want you all to know that while this is a sad circumstance, I make a concerted effort to spend no time pitying myself. Instead, I spend that time reveling in the gifts that God has given me and enjoying each day that I can, to the extent that I can. Oddly enough, this past few weeks have been some of the most enlightening and beautiful times, where I have been able to appreciate my life with new eyes.

Thanks for reading, and I will share the MRI results and/or surgery dates when they come in.