Why are claustrophobia and an MRI such good friends?

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by Express Monorail

“Take the sedative an hour before you come in for the procedure.”

I was certain I had heard the doctor say this.

Yet an hour later, I still felt my heart racing.

I squeezed the Son’s hand tightly and heard him whisper, “It’s going to be alright, mom. Just relax.”

Relax.

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt what that was like.

My thoughts wandered to what had brought me here in the first place.

“I think it’s a meniscal tear, Bella, but I need an MRI to confirm it.”

An MRI?

The acronym alone made me hyperventilate.

“Bella,” I heard the receptionist call my name.

“Please proceed to Room 1.”

Room 1.

It sounded like what Alfred Hitchcock would call the place where strange things happened to unsuspecting victims.

As I hobbled over to Room 1, I felt my hands tremble.

Dear Lord, just how bad of a person had I been in a past life and why was I paying for that woman’s sins?

“Mom, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to be with you the entire time.”

The Son.
My son.

How much good had I done in a past life to deserve such a loyal, beautiful child?

Swallowing hard and stifling the desire to scream for him to get me out of there, I patted his hand and attempted to take another step.

Five seconds later, I was being asked to lay down on a cold, hard surface.

I looked at the ominous tunnel that seemed to whisper, “Come into my lair.”

Again I felt my pulse race.

My breath caught in my throat.

“You can do this, Auntie B. You’re a gladiator!”

I remembered the sweet encouragement my niece had given me the night before.

Laying down on the table, I felt an intense wave of fear settle over my body.

I felt cold.
Nauseous.
Dizzy.

“These headphones will help with the noise.”

Noise?
What noise?

Fear continued to forcibly settle on my skin.
In my stomach.
In my chest.

I saw the technician hand the Son a headset.

Good.
At least we would be able to communicate through the ordeal.

“This is a panic button, Bella. Press it if you think you can’t finish the MRI.”

Can I press it now?
Can I go home?
Can we forget I was ever here?

Suddenly, the metal slab was being propelled into the tunnel.

Our Father, who art in heaven…

I could hardly remember the words to my favorite prayer.

My face itched.
My feet felt numb.
I wanted to cough.

“Please remain still for the duration of the study.”

The tech’s voice loomed loudly through the headset.

“It’s going to be fine, mom. When we’re done here, we’ll get coffee. Okay?”

I felt tears slowly creep down the sides of my face.

“I’m going to count down, Bella. Hang in there. Three, two, one…”

Boom, boom, boom!

The loud noises sounded like gunshots.

My hands continued to tremble at my side.

100, 99, 98, 97, 96…

I slowly counted back from a hundred.

Why wasn’t the sedative working?

Why didn’t I feel the buzz such a pill is supposed to give?

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Stay still, mom.”

I heard the Son’s voice through the headset.

I should have known better than to rely on a pill I’d never taken before.

I should have taken a swig from the fancy Cognac bottle the Significant Other kept in his desk.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

When would the noise stop?

Why couldn’t I feel my lower back anymore?

Why did it feel like an elephant was sitting on top of my chest?

“We’re halfway done, Bella. You’re doing great.”

79, 78, 77…

Counting backwards had always worked as a soothing technique.

Why wasn’t it working now?

I had given the tech my Saturday Night Fever CD.

Why weren’t the Bee Gees crooning “Staying Alive” in my ear?

My heart felt like it was going to self-eject at any moment.

Hallowed it be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…

My brain and heart were on overdrive.

Any moment now, I would go into shock.
Total and absolute system failure.

My end was near.

I would meet my maker in this metal tunnel.

No white light to lead the way or deceased loved ones to take my hand.

And I would be dressed in ratty gray sweatpants and an old pink tee emblazoned with the word “foxy” for all eternity.

“Bella, we’re done.”

“Mom, it’s over.”

The room spun as the Son and the tech helped me to sit up.

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

Finally.

I had triumphed over the metal monster who had held me captive for the past thirty minutes.

Claustrophobia was my kryptonite but still, I had beat it.

“Auntie B., you are a gladiator.”

I smiled as I realized that for the first time today, those words rung true.

Does claustrophobia have the same effect on you?

Note: While some of the inner dialogue written in this post may be humorous, it is not my intention to make fun of anxiety or claustrophobia. Writing this post was my way of dealing with the symptoms of claustrophobia that I felt during a recent MRI study. And I’m afraid the symptoms were all too real. Nevertheless, writing about the experience has allowed me to process the emotions that assaulted me that day and come to terms with my humanity.

Who really opened the Pandora box?

cc licensed ( BY ) flickr photo shared by Simon Peckham

Good day, everyone!

Yesterday’s blog post served to shed light on a couple of facts, the most important, that we’ve all committed a “public” faux pas at one point or another.

Most of you admit to feeling some anxiety concerning the possibility that someone or something could be watching you.

Others admit to publicly adjusting underwear in public, tugging at clothes, and pushing body parts back into place.

Some have thanked me for creating awareness that there might be some truth to the conspiracy theory, while others wish I’d never opened the Pandora box.

In light of these results, I think it only fair to reveal who’s really responsible for having opened the box.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the culprits.

Roxy

Alberto

(FYI, I don’t know what the cat’s real name is, but for the sake of identification purposes, lets call him Alberto.)

However, before you condemn them, know they are also responsible for shedding light on the fact that most of us suffer from scopophobia: the fear of being looked at or seen.

Through their actions, our furry friends have “stumbled” onto this diagnosis.

Curse them or thank them. It’s up to you.

I now suggest we put this behind us and go forward in the world, either by exercising more caution with our public “adjustments,” or by not giving a rat’s ass at who looks at us.

It’s up to you.

Have a good one, folks.

XOXO,

Disclaimer: This blog post is written for amusement purposes only, and is not intended to provide specific medical diagnosis or treatment advice.

Can you open wider?

cc licensed flickr photo shared by heather

Visiting the dentist is one of the things I most hate.

It doesn’t matter who the dentist is, how fancy his or her office is, how many free toothbrushes and floss I get, I simply hate it.

I hate the dental office smell, the creepy posters of huge teeth with eyes and mouths, and the waiting room filled with other terror-striken patients that jump every time a name is called.

On this fine morning, my terror increases as the bespectacled little man who controls the tiny drill that causes unbearable pain informs me, “I’m afraid this wisdom tooth has to come out today.”

Wisdom tooth? Coming out today? I didn’t even know I had one of those, much less that it was having a coming out party!

“So…? Are you ready to have it pulled?”

Have what pulled? Oh my God. Oh my freakin’ God.

“While we’re young, Bella.”

Young? How young am I going to look with missing teeth?

Will I still be able to chew my food? Will my face cave in? Will my teeth move backward and leave me with a large gap between my front teeth? And more importantly, how much is it going to hurt?

Palms sweating, mouth dry, pupils dilated, I see him loom closer, needle in hand.

“You’ll just feel a pinch,” he says.

A little pinch like the kind my sister gave me when we got in a fight, little?

Or a big pinch like the one my mother gave me when I misbehaved?”

Silently, I nod my head.

“Open wide,” he instructs.

The last man that said that was the gynecologist, and that felt like a really big pinch.

“No need to tense up. Try to relax, ” he insists, while holding what looks like a set of pliers to my face.

“God, why do you hate me?”

“If you don’t open wide, I’m going to have to use the metal clamp.”

Oh no! Not the metal clamp. The last time he used it, I almost swallowed my tongue.

I shake my head no.

“Alrighty then. Lets get this party started.”

Okay, he didn’t really say that, but I realize I’m going to need some humor to stop myself from passing out.

In go cotton wads that look like caterpillars and make me gag; quickly followed by the “pliers.”

“I’ve got it,” he announces, as if he had just caught a fish.

And then the tugging begins.

To the left, to the right, and again to the left, the torture device moves in my mouth.

The groggy part of my brain starts to think we’re dancing the “Cupid Shuffle.”

“Clara, can you give me a hand here?” he calls out to his assistant.

I thought he said this tooth was dead.

Why isn’t it out already?

Panic starts to set in. I can’t swallow. There’s a taste of blood in my mouth.

The tugging continues.

His assistant joins the fun and presses my shoulders into the seat.

In spite of the anesthetic, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience; witnessing the onslaught.

Panic increases and I begin to think that any moment, the dentist is going to climb on top of my chest to get more leverage.

And this isn’t a strange thought, given he appears to be having a “take no prisoners” day.

“It’s almost out.”

Suddenly, I start having flashbacks of when I was giving birth and realize that this pain is ten times worse.

“It’s coming!”

Finish it off already, for the love of Pete.

“Here it is!” he proudly exclaims as he shows me the tooth that until fifteen minutes ago, resided in my mouth.

I wipe the blood trickling from the corners of my mouth and realize I must look like one of the vampires from Twilight.

A tear makes its way down my cheek.

It’s been only a few minutes, and already it feels like a part of me is missing.

With a satisfied look on his face, the dentist says, “No complications. I was able to yank it out whole.”

(Like this is supposed to make me feel better.)

With drool making its way down my chin, I say, “Zee you in zis months.”

It appears the anesthesia has left me with a lisp.

“Unless I have to pull out the one from the opposite quadrant.”

Are you kidding me? I’d sooner light myself on fire.

As I weakly limp out of the office, I “key” every poster lining the hallway.

There, I feel better already.

How do you make it through your dental visits?