Medical Trauma

A friend of mine once said that if you have a chronic illness you accumulate medical trauma and have to keep returning “to the scene of the crime.”

That’s one of the hard things about having a chronic illness. You will always have to go back to the doctor.

One of my traumatic medical experiences occurred when I was getting an MRI on my brain and spinal cord a year or so ago.

I experienced a worsening of my MS symptoms which always leads to an MRI. I usually get an MRI every 6 months of my brain and cervical spine. This MRI usually takes about 45 minutes. Due to my worsening symptoms, the doctor ordered an MRI of my thoracic spine as well. Put it all together and you get about an hour and a half MRI. This includes a moment of pulling me out of the MRI machine to insert contrast fluid via an IV. Imagine this:

“Mogene Christensen?” I slowly stand and walk towards the employee who is holding a clipboard and waiting for me. My left leg is acting up again- meaning that it feels like a block of cement encased in a skin colored tube sock.

“Did I say that right?” I nodded and smiled while attempting to walk a little less like a pirate with a pegleg. She leads me back to a dressing room where I am given a hospital gown and pants that look like two hospital gowns sewn together — one for each leg.

I go through my usual pre-MRI routine which involves changing, putting my things into a locker, and using the bathroom before sitting in dimly lit room to wait for them to come for me again.

I’m led to the MRI machine and instructed to lay down on the body sized plank coming out of the machine. My head rests in a little divot and after asking me what music I want them to play, they put my headphones on, slide a squishy rectangle on either side of my head and put the face cage on. This limits my ability to move my head thus resulting in better images.

I am given a “panic button” and they slide me inside with a reminder to hold still. The fit is tight enough that my arms are pushed towards my body and the ceiling is about two inches from my face.

BRR brr brr Clickclickclick BRR brr brr Clickclickclick. And so it begins.

It’s loud enough that I can feel the vibrations throughout my body. I also realize that while they gave me headphones, they did not give me ear plugs.

BEOUUUU BEOUUU BEOUUUU chchch. My ears are starting to hurt and despite my desire to “take it like a man,” I can’t handle the volume. I push my panic button and after finishing the imaging sequence, the radiology tech’s voice comes through my headphones.

“Are you doing okay?” I ask for earplugs and she comes to my aid.

“Try not to move,” she reiterates as she removes the face cage, squishy rectangles, and headphones. She puts the earplugs in for me and replaces all of the restricting equipment. Back in we go.

PUHPUHPUHPUH deoudeoudeou PUHPUHPUHPUH. My mind wanders as I try not to think about my itchy nose, the crick in my neck, and how small the space around me is.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Forty. An hour.

How much longer? My hands feel strange from the vibration. If I try to subtly move my shoulders will it ruin the images?

I start feeling warm and hope that we are reaching a point where I can move a tiny bit without worrying.

Ten minutes pass.

I am trying to use all the distraction techniques I know. Making up a song in my head that goes with the “beat” of the MRI machine, writing a story, thinking about food or my family, but more and more I am absorbed with how warm I am and how achy my body feels from holding still for so long.

I start counting down from 500, telling myself that I can make it until I get to zero. I reach 300 before I begin to panic. Why can’t I handle this? Why am I so weak? Anyone can hold still for an hour and a half.

I push the panic button.

“How much longer?” There must be something in my voice that betrays how I’m feeling because the radiology tech comes into the room and pulls me out of the machine.

“Let’s take a little break!” She says, observing my teary eyes and red face.

“You’ve got 15 more minutes left.” I immediately start trying to calculate in my head. I only need to make it 15 more minutes. So if one minute is 60 seconds, 10 minutes is 600 seconds, or is it different because there are only 60 seconds in a minute and not 100 seconds in a minute? (An aside here. Stress makes it hard to think. I’m usually pretty good with math.)

I breathe shakily and the tech walks over to a cupboard and pulls out an IV sized plastic hose.

“Point this at your face when you go back inside the machine.” She hands it to me and I immediately feel the cool air blowing from the end.

“Do you think that will help?” She looks at me kindly and I bite my lip, doing my best to nod while my head is stuck in a face cage.

I got this I got this I got this I got this. Since trying to calculate the exact number of seconds I have left hurts my brain I decide to count down from 1,000. That has to be enough, right?

PuWAH click PuWAH click PuWAH click.

999, 998, 997, 996, 995….

CHCHchchCHCHchch donk donk donk donk.

910, 909, 908…

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I have experienced a range of emotions in response to this experience. Sadness, fear, anxiety, panic, etc. Yet I have repeatedly denied to myself that this counts as “trauma.” I wasn’t abused, didn’t witness violence, and have a loving support network. I don’t experience flashbacks or have nightmares.

I have come to realize though that this experience was traumatic! It doesn’t mean I am weak, making a big deal out of nothing, or trying to victimize myself. It is, quite simply, the result of having a chronic illness.

I have gotten two MRIs since this one and they were both manageable.

So, what’s the life lesson? What do you think? Let me know.

Picture Cred: Image by rawpixel.com on Freepik