M R...Eye?

For years, my dad has told us kids that you get one perfect day when you are 17 years old when everything in your body works right, looks good, and feels perfect.  It's all downhill from there.  I would have to say that my downhill slide started more around the age of 23, but who's counting? My eyesight decided to take its downhill slide this year.   I hobbled through a couple of months with some cheaters from the local dollar store, but my husband grew concerned that I was doing more damage than good after trying them on.  Two weeks ago, he finally convinced me that it was time to visit the eye doctor.  Much to the dismay of Dr. Hopkins, I had not had a routine eye exam since they were offered in grade school!  Thankfully, a divine power prodded me to get this checkup.

So, on April 25th, I was sitting in Dr. Hopkins' exam room as he reviewed by retinal scans and he started raising his eyebrows and saying things like, "Hmmmm, interesting" and "Oh, that's not good."  I laughed thinking he was pulling my leg, and it took some time to convince me that what he was seeing really wasn't good.  For crying out loud, all I wanted was a simple eye exam and a $350 pair of glasses to carry around in my purse!  Turns out things weren't so simple, and I was being sent on to my medical doctor to more tests.

Last Friday, I was scheduled to have an MRI of my head performed to pinpoint what is going on in my noggin'.  I had myself completely convinced that this machine is like a jacked up tanning bed.  Both ends are open, it makes a consistent humming noise, and the lights are on the whole time.  I was ready.  The technician inserted my IV on the first attempt (a piece of medical hardware I despise) and took me around the corner into the MRI room.  All was good.  She had me insert the ear plugs, lay down on the table, and then she showed me the halo that fits over your head.  Oh, that's cute, I thought.  Then, she packed my head in the positioning mechanism like she was shipping me to Abu Dhabi, and started screwing the halo down to the table.  You ain't moving now sweetheart. Oh boy.  Nope. No way. Get me out of here.

So, I'm psyching myself back into this thing and telling myself I can do it.  I laid back down on the table, halo-less, and ask her to simply insert my body into the MRI machine so I can see what that is like.  I'll tell you what it's like.  A coffin.  A torture chamber.  A suffocation room.  Turns out I am indeed claustrophobic and the gig was up.  Big, tough Trish was going to have to come back another day because she needed to be knocked out for this test.

Fast forward to yesterday.  I spent the whole weekend waking up in cold sweats about this MRI machine eating me alive and nobody being able to hear my screams.  I was the first patient at the outpatient clinic, and Nurse Gretchen took me back into the bowels of the hospital to prepare me for the day's events.  Considering my blood pressure was like 347/120 at this point, she did a wonderful job getting my IV started on the first try.  In walks my anesthesiologist, Todd, and he asks me why I'm having this procedure done.  Trying to make a joke, I say "the doctors are finally trying to figure out exactly why I am the way that I am." Todd, who only laughs at his own jokes, says, "No seriously, why are you here." To which I reply, "we don't know yet, but this test is hopefully going to give us some answers." Good enough. Onward we go.

It's a little after 7 a.m., we are back in the room with the beast, I've got my earplugs in and my arms/torso are strapped down to the table.  Someone asks if I'm doing OK, I give the thumbs up, and all goes black.  Sometime during the next two hours, I entered the belly of the beast and made it back out alive.  A much better experience.  Except the twelve hour hangover afterwards.  I could have done without that.  Thanks a lot, Todd.

We don't have any answers yet as to why I am the way that I am, but we will soon have some results.  I do want to take this time to thank all the doctors, nurses, and staff who work so diligently to take care of us each and every day.  We are very fortunate to have this level of care available in our community, and to have an outpatient clinic that provides the kind of services it does.  Let's take the time on this National Nurses week to honor these special caretakers who make such a huge difference on a daily basis, even with difficult patients like me.  Life isn't all real estate and roses, but they do all they can to make a bad situation just a little bit better.  Welcome Home.