I have to have another MRI done today.
I imagine most of you read over that sentence shrugging your shoulders and saying okay. Possibly I’m going to tell you how many times I’ll use the bathroom today as well. I know, to you, it’s trivial.
That one sentence left me staring at the screen, my thoughts a million miles away.
I am claustrophobic.
I don’t just mean run of the mill claustrophobia. I don’t mean I thought it would be cute in high school to say I have it claustrophobia. I mean if someone stands between me and the only exit to a room i’ll start panicking claustrophobia. I mean that the mere thought of an MRI strikes fear into my very soul claustrophobia.
Thanks to the lady who forgot to look before she changed lanes I am destined to my own personal hell of MRI’s every year for the rest of my life. Only a few years ago I so innocently thought that annual pap smears were like such a pain. Oh to go back to such luxury of being naive.
I know you all get sick of hearing about the accident. I imagine you all read my posts and all you hear is…
In my best Eeyore voice,”Here I go again. Talking about the accident. Oh whoa is me.”
FYI; most days I wonder if I’ll ever find my tail again too.
I used to feel bad about this. I used to feel like I didn’t deserve to talk about it any more. Like I was being, dun dun dunnn, an attention seeker. But you know what?
Fuck you if you feel that way.
Yup, I said it. Fuck each and every one of you. I love you. I love every single person who follows this rambling personal diary of a thing I like to call a blog. I love all my fellow bloggers that write endless ‘how to’ articles. Or better yet the ones that write about their lavish lives on their lavish vacations that they lavishly take every lavish week.
This is my thing. My space. It’s not yours. I finally understand that now.
So I might not bring you in depth articles about how to make your own pb&j sandwiches. And yeah the latest destination I visited was fifty feet out my back door to my bonfire pit. So fucking what?!
After the accident I was in shock. The incompetent hospital didn’t recognize the signs. I had a severe concussion. Also not diagnosed until days later. Within a week or two I developed issues with dangerously high blood pressure levels that took three trips to a doctor to get diagnosed and treated. By the time they were treated I was nearly hospitalized due to how high they were. I spent four months, yes FOUR, telling doctor after doctor after doctor that something was wrong with my back. That I was in great pain. That I could hardly move. Before one finally took me seriously enough to order an MRI.
I have fought since day one telling doctors something was wrong. They have looked me in the eye, brushed me off, and implied that I was crazy, pill seeking, perfectly fine. Every single time, every single doctor, was eventually proven wrong. There was something wrong with me. It wasn’t ‘all in my head’.
My kids had a doctor for years (he’s now in a practice too far away). He was and is the best child doctor I have met to date. Why? Because of one simple thing he would ask me whenever I brought one of my children to him; “What do YOU think is wrong?” He believed that a parent, though professionally uneducated, knew their child better than he ever could. He listened. I loved that.
Funny, I never put the same theory into my own medical care. I put my faith into doctors. My trust. My health. Despite the fact that I could hardly move, even I began thinking maybe it was all in my head. Why? Because my “doctor” implied as much over and over again.
I finally realized something so gravely important. That I am in charge of my health care.
Yes, the doctor may be smarter than me. Though, given the exact doctor I have my opinions about that as well. Truthfully though, at the end of the day, who really has the most at stake? The doctor? Or me?
It’s not his kidneys that are being destroyed by the onslaught of medication I am on to control my pain, my high blood pressure, my depression, my anxiety. The doctor didn’t even mention that my latest lab results showed an alarmingly high level of a certain chemical that is released into your blood stream when your kidneys are starting to deteriorate. It was I that noticed the bold red number. I that googled what it meant. I that mentioned it to the doctor.
All this medication they give me. Medication that barely touches my pain or depression or anxiety. Medication that has me craving sodium like it’s gold. Medication that, according to the reasons doctors are meant to dispense, the benefits outweigh the harm. Personally, I don’t believe that taking a pain level from an 8 to a 6-7 outweighs the effects of PERMANENT KIDNEY DAMAGE!
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just angry. Bitter. Hateful. Maybe I’m just mad at the world. Mad at the lady that caused all this endless pain. Mad at the doctors who just can’t make it all better. Mad at all of you for just not understanding. Mad at myself, for being so mad.
I apologize. I know deep down that it’s not you, it’s me. I am a scared animal that has been cornered. Lashing out in a weak attempt to prolong it’s survival.
Like I said, I don’t say I’m claustrophobic because I think it’s cute.
For better or worse, here I come MRI.