Last week was the appointment I have been afraid of for two, almost three years. The specter of my medical trauma, my anesthesia awareness cast a long shadow over every minute, including the drive in, the parking, the check-in and the waiting. The defense of my mortality and humanity was already being deployed by my sub-conscious. I was irritable with everyone and everything I encountered. I slammed the door in the stairwell as hard as I could muster. I tried very hard to not be nasty with the humans who were obligated to interact with me, so I was short instead. It was the best I could do.
I was nicer when the gastroenterologist entered the room, like that matters. I told her about the issue, that it started during my last bout with hypothyroidism, which was caused by the Levoxyl recall, a sub-optimal dose of Synthroid, and an endocrinologist who refused to test my TSH after switching brands (they are not all the same). I told her about my cousin’s cancer. I eventually worked my way up to disclosing why I had put this appointment off for so long and my fear of having a colonoscopy. Dr. Gastro asked me what happened. She seemed alarmed and asked, “What hospital was this?” Don’t worry, it wasn’t this one!
Dr. Gastro ordered a smorgasbord of tests, including a “recommended” colonoscopy that would be attended by an anesthesiologist, which means a likely drug combination of propofol and fentanyl. I was almost okay with this, until I had the ordered abdominal CT scan that required IV administration of contrast. Now I am less okay with it.
The CT scan took place late that same night during LA’s first major rainstorm of the season. The parking garage was closed for the night, so I was forced to park in the street and walk two blocks, maneuvering gutters overflowing and overwhelmed by the steadily falling rain. I was so tired. I had already cried in the car, sobbed on the 405, then again at home. All I did all day was cry out of fear and fatigue and loneliness. I checked in and of course, on this night, there was a man in the waiting room lacking social graces. He played music on his cell phone, games, took phone calls, stretched and groaned, burped loudly. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, then I wanted to punch him in his gross, unshaven face. Welcome to the Night Circus, I thought. His name was eventually called after forty-five minutes of grinding my teeth. I finished my barium drink. I wasn’t thinking about an IV as I hadn’t been explicitly told I was getting one. But I knew both types of contrast are used for abdominal CTs. It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trigger.
To bystanders, I handled it wonderfully. But in reality, I hung on to that appearance of normalcy by the tips of my ragged fingernails. The placement of it didn’t bother me. I didn’t look at it. It hurt, as they do. It hurt as the rad tech taped it down. It hurt when I put my arms over my head. Then the panic swooped in and grabbed me by the throat as soon as I felt the contrast hit my veins and that warm feeling swept over my body. Feelings of terrified helplessness reverberated through me. The thought, what if they kill me? went through my head. I felt like I was choking. Tears. I bit my lip. I had heart palpitations. I tried to give myself a pep talk in my head, just hold on. It was over quickly. I felt shaky as the tech had my sit up. He asked if I was okay and I simply said that the contrast caused a choking sensation. He mentioned that happens sometimes and commented on my looking away from my arm with the IV. I mentioned I’d had a bad experience in the past with general anesthesia. I told my story for the second time that day, watching the shock register on his face, his eyes big.
This reminded me of the moments before my surgery. I had a gut feeling something was wrong when I met the anesthesiologist, but I didn’t act on it. I thought about the sensation of that first wave of benzos hitting my bloodstream, followed by the sensation of my consciousness slipping away, my eyes again filling with tears, and then waking up to horror and this massive rupture that has existed in my world ever since.
As it turns out, the CT didn’t show anything pathological and Dr. Gastro continues to recommend I have the colonoscopy. I have other lab tests to complete and if all that turns up fine, then I will likely schedule it. I guess. I will need to send a message to Dr. Gastro about IV drugs being a trigger so she knows ahead of time. I’m trying to find the balance between protecting myself emotionally and performing due diligence on this body. It would be incredibly reckless for me not to do this, given my history and now the family history. I’m just tired. So tired of trying to keep myself in check all of the time and grappling with this nearly every time I seek medical care.
This also prompts me to question my own story, the plot lines that I tell myself. I do not like my story thus far. I don’t want my health problems and PTSD to be my central storyline. I find myself angry more often than not. I want to leave this place better than I found out, to be loving, to be open. Sometimes I am able to chill, give people the benefit of the doubt, smile at the person who is in my way, but it never lasts before I swing back the other way. I cannot help but think of my upbringing, the coldness of both my parents, the lack of affection, and I see where my frozen core comes from. It’s also why I am alone. I need to start an outline that will change my story.
via Daily Prompt: Moody