It got off to a bad start and, because this is me, I should have known it would be downhill from there. The woman who answered the phone was a jerk and I was a jerk in response and it turned out we were both completely wrong. And not just for being jerks.

MS progression is documented these days by MRI’s. I have gone to the same hospital based radiology department for my MRI’s since I first got sick. I have almost always had the same tech, a wonderful, wonderful guy named Nick. I cannot say enough good things about him. He is professional yet patient and kind and friendly. One time, when I was having a hard time moving because of muscle spasms, he got down on his knees and tied my sneakers for me. How sweet is that?!? So why would I change?

I have gained so much weight between medication and immobility, that I was truly afraid I wouldn’t fit in the tube any more. I am probably wrong, but I couldn’t face the humiliation if that were the case. So my neurologist’s office suggested this other place, which has a bigger machine.

I haven’t been for a scan for over a year, so this time I needed not just the brain but the cervical spine and thoracic spine too. All plain and then with an injection of contrast dye. I called to make the appointment. “You know you have to come in three different times?” the clerk said, as snotty as could be. My snot-ometer rose as I replied “I never did before.” “With the contrast” she intoned, as if it gave her pleasure to make my life more complicated, “they have to do three different studies.” We went back and forth a few times, with me disputing this. She put me on hold and finally came back and reluctantly conceded they could do the brain and c-spine at the same time. “But it will take a LONG time.” she added with malice. Why did she care so much about making things harder for me? And why did I care since I have nothing to do anyway? See, we were both being jerks. She was wrong about needing three studies and boy-oh-boy did I turn out to be wrong about a longer test being no problem. And that was only my first mistake.

The MRI’s have not been a big deal to me.  I am somewhat claustrophobic, but Xanax makes that manageable. The machine is noisy, but they give you ear plugs, so it is not too bad.


For the brain MRI, they put a helmet/mask type thing on your head with an immobilizer around your neck.


Not fun with claustrophobia, but an extra Xanax takes care of that. Going for the tests has just been just a mild inconvenience.

I am desperately clinging to my last shreds of independence, so I never even thought of asking someone to take me for the test last Wednesday. This despite the fact I can barely walk anymore, even with the walker, and the current level of spasticity and pain in my legs is mind numbing. It was such a struggle to get into the building from even the handicapped parking spot that I was panting and shaking when I got to the desk. And yes, before you say anything, I am slowly coming to the realization I am an idiot and have to ask for help in the future.

The two clerks behind the window were putting on an elaborate show of how incredibly busy and stressed they were over answering the phone and greeting patients. After about three minutes of me standing there, one threw open the sliding glass and snapped “Yes?”. Here I was wobbling in place with a walker in a diagnostic imaging facility. What did she think I was there for? I almost asked if this was where I could catch the train to New York, but even I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. So I gave her my name and appointment time. She shoved some paperwork at me and closed the glass with a bang.

I filled it out and shuffled back to the window. Now, every movement is hard for me. But apparently being crippled doesn’t cut you any slack with Shrewsbury Diagnostic Imaging. No offer of help was made in any way. If this had been my office, first I would have forbidden anyone to greet a patient with the word “yes” and instead would insist on a simple hello or good morning. If it was someone with a mobility issue, I would have the staff offer to bring them the paperwork and then go get it when they were finished to save them the steps. And I would demand that patients be treated pleasantly. This is a job. They are getting paid for it. Why are they so freaking surly?!?!

So I knit away for a while and then decide to go to the bathroom before the test. In case they come to call me, I stop at the desk to let them know I will be in the bathroom. Before I can say my name the annoyed clerk goes “I don’t know who you are ma’am” at the top of her voice. WHAT? How about “Sure, what is your name, I’ll let them know.” Or just “OK”. There was only one other person there waiting. And it was a man. If they came looking for me, the process of elimination would not have taken that long. But “I don’t know who you are ma’am”?!?! By now I was seething, but these days my seething manifests itself in tears. So there I was struggling, in pain, lonely, mad, fat and sniffling. Woo hoo.

They finally call me. I go through the familiar routine, take the bobby pins out of my hair, bra comes off, I lay down on the platform and immediately begin to feel a burning pain in my back. My legs are still draped over the side, they are now too weak for me to get them up by myself. I have to ask the two techs to lift them up for me when they tell me to put them on the table. They act surprised, so I am guessing they didn’t notice the big purple walker I came in on. They put a foam wedge under my knees, but something is not right. The angle is wrong, the pain in my back is getting more intense and I say so. “Just push up with your legs” the main tech says. But I can’t, they are not strong enough. I am starting to panic at the prospect of being in pain for the next hour. ha ha Little did I know.

“This doesn’t feel right, my position is not right” I say. The girl tech is completely missing the point and keeps saying “You are going to be ok, just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” They clamp the head piece on. They are moving quickly because time is money here and I have to be out in time for the next patient. My back is getting worse. I try wriggling a little to ease it, but nothing helps. I am pleading to be repositioned, but to my horror the table slides into the tube and the test starts.

I try my Lamaze breathing, but I am out of practice and overwhelmed. The pain is like hot knives slicing through my back in spasms. I am reminded not to move by the tech’s disembodied voice. “I am in terrible pain” I reply. And I apologize. To no response. I start to silently cry. My breathing is jagged. All I can think of is I am stuck here for over an hour and a half because I was the idiot who insisted I could have the brain and c-spine at the same time.

I start to breath to the rhythm of the noise in the machine in order to cope. I say the Hail Mary over and over. It does not help the pain but it keeps me from getting hysterical. They ask me how I am doing and I tell them I think I am going to be sick. I keep saying I’m sorry. And I really am. I am sorry that I am hurting so much, I am sorry they are so indifferent, I am sorry they are making it clear I am a pain in the neck. The tech points out there is still a long way to go. I tell them I cannot go on. He says if we stop now, we have to completely re-do the brain MRI, but we can do the c-spine another time and I jump at that. Finally it is time for the contrast injection, which means the platform is partially rolled out of the machine. They put an extra pillow under my knees but by this time nothing is helping. The tech, in a bored voice, says it will only be another five minutes after the contrast. I hang in there for the longest five minutes ever and then it is over.

They roll me out and help me sit up. The pain is so bad I let out an involuntary cry, apologizing all the while. They are indifferent. I am a mess, disheveled hair, tear stained face, gasping for air. “Ok, bye” the girl tech says perkily and points me towards the exit. “Can I just sit in the changing area and pull myself together for a minute?” I choke out. She looks at me with surprise and says “Oh, sure.” I shuffle the fifteen or so feet to a curtained booth, sit and try not to lose it completely. I still have to drive myself home.

I barely remember getting home. I do know that at 8 o’clock that night my breathing was still coming in those horrible shudders after you have been sobbing. I honestly felt as though I had been hit by a truck. Between the pain and the realization that I really cannot do these things alone anymore, I was shell shocked.

So…I still have two more tests to get through, scheduled for next week. I am hoping for the best, like maybe I’ll have a different technician or maybe they will be more compassionate. I am lucky enough to have two wonderful, generous people from church driving me. I will make sure I am well positioned before I let them start. I will have taken plenty of pain medication. I will say my prayers and try to remember there will be an end to the pain, if it happens again. I will mentally word my complaint to management and imagine having the snotty staff shot at dawn. Or at least imprisoned in a slimy, vermin infested cell. I will think about all my wonderful friends and how supportive you are. That is what always carries me through at the end of the day.