Every year in January, I get an MRI of my brain. This has been going on for 9 years now, so it’s not really a big deal to me, and I don’t expect that I’m going to get bad news anymore. It takes about a half an hour of being in the MRI machine, which doesn’t freak me out as long as I keep my eyes closed. I learned my lesson quick on that account when I opened my eyes during one of my early scans and saw the top of the tube right in front of my face, and nearly went into a claustrophobia panic. For the first twenty minutes of the scan, I just lay in the tube and try not to be deafened by the cacophonous clacking of the magnets, and then they pull me out of the tube and inject a contrast solution and put me back into the tube for another 10 minutes. The purpose of these scans is to make sure that a spot they found in my brain during my 2011 illness doesn’t change. As long as it doesn’t change, they tell me that they just want to let it be. I do my best to trust that they won’t ever have to do anything more invasive to my brain.
This year, I scheduled my yearly brain scan in a new location thinking that it would be more convenient for me. Getting ready for an MRI is kind of like going through security at the airport in that they are quite concerned about metals of any kind on your person. They ask if you’ve ever been exposed to shrapnel, if you have any metal implants of any sort, and then they make you strip and get into a hospital gown just in case. I hope they never start doing that last part at the airport.
Arms wrapped around myself to ward off the chill of walking around in a hospital gown, I got into the machine with the help of the MRI tech and the nurse, and was prepared for it to be the same routine as every year for the last nine years, but this time, when the tech pulled me out of the tube to do the contrast injection, it was quite different. Since I have an aversion to needles, I looked away as he prepped me by wrapping a tourniquet around my upper arm and told me to make a fist. Then he told me that there would be a slight sting, and I prepared myself for the usual injection pain, but this time it was so much worse that I started to sweat and got woozy. It felt like the vein in my right arm was going to explode.
I told the tech, “Wow. That hurts a lot more than usual, and it’s making me feel faint.”
He said,”Oh, don’t worry. That’s just the pressure of the contrast against the walls of your vein.”
Trying to take deep breaths against the pain and wooziness, I said, “I’ve had this done a bunch of times and it never felt like that before.” I didn’t want to say it, but I felt like he had the needle in wrong.
His response was, “I’ll just do it as slow as possible for you.”
Um no. “Actually,” I said, “please finish as quickly as you can. I need to get this over with or I’m going to pass out. I have a history of doing that.” This is true. I’ve always been squeamish around medical stuff, but due to my protracted illness in 2011, my medical trauma has made my squeamishness exponentially worse.
He finished the injection, and said, “Never had that response before, huh?”
“No,” I said, taking deep breaths and trying to mentally be somewhere else . . . somewhere cool, like Scotland.
With that, he put me back in the MRI tube to complete the scan.
Now, it’s entirely possible that I just had a bad reaction to the injection, but the tech’s assumption that it was my problem, and not anything that he might be doing wrong was triggering for me. I’ve had blood draws before that were terribly painful and left bruises because the phlebotomist made a mistake, so I know that it’s within the realm of possibility that the extreme pain of the injection this time wasn’t just my own reaction, especially since this is the ninth time I’ve done it, and I’ve never had a problem before.
The reason that I bring this up is that one of the main premises of my book, I’m Sick, Not Crazy, is that the medical system needs a huge compassion overhaul. During my 2011 illness, I was shocked by the number of times I was told that the problems I was having were likely “just anxiety.” They definitely were not due to anxiety. It’s true that I was terribly afraid about the awful and unexplained symptoms I was having, but I knew that they were due to a neck injury I’d sustained. It took months to get any doctors to listen to that explanation.
I went from doctor to doctor without any relief, and a huge increase in stress and sickness. Eventually, I came to a frightening conclusion. I believe that there is an entrenched culture in the medical system of blaming the patient when the doctor doesn’t know what the problem is. I also believe that this bias toward blaming the patient is a major barrier between patients and the diagnoses and treatments that they need. My hope is to spread the word that a small increase in compassion and the ability to listen to what patients are saying would create a huge shift in the wellness of the community. I hope that you’ll join me in the work to spread this message.