Panic (part 3): The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

While you waited for the second MRI, the second trip into the third circle of Hell, your symptoms got worse. You now have a tingling, not-quite-pins-and-needles-but-the-moment-before-they-hit sensation that almost exactly bisects your entire body, affecting your right side. Except for your toes. How messed up is that? From your scalp, down to your ear, your neck, and around to your face. Your arm, leg, and trunk, all on the right side, is slightly desensitized. Like that feeling you get when you've been out in the snow for some time and are very cold, then come into a warm house. You take off your coat and rub your hands on your arms to try to warm them, and they feel sort of numb, though you still can feel pain. Your right side feels like THAT, except not cold.

But, you have no loss of motor function and no diminished cognitive processing; no impairment of your sight of hearing, so you figure it's the stress of the first test, coupled with the "something" that they found. You're pretty sure this is a psycho-somatic response to the results of the first MRI.

Pretty sure.

Pragmatically, you're hopeful that the second test will show some cause for this sensation, but you are a realist, and know that any anomalies in the right side of your body would be caused by an issue on the left side of your brain. Your 'something' that the doctor talked to you about last week was on the right side.

So all you can do is wait.

The second test went much smoother than the first. The gorgeous Lord Diazepam did his level best to make you feel like anything was possible. That you could survive another trip through the hell of being buried alive. He also made damned sure that your motor skills were shot completely to shit.

So, you asked your mother to take you to the test so you didn't literally end up buried. She (of course) agreed, and watched as you sat on the table and tensed up. She watched as the tech measured out a dose of something scary and injected it into your body. She watched as you settled down on your back, and got covered with a light blanket. She watched as the cage came over your head, and your breathing became more labored. She watched as you started to slide into the hole again.

Then she watched as Lord Diazepam completely distracted you. Your whole body relaxed, arms loose at your side. You didn't even register that the tech neglected to give you a panic button. Panic? What's that? This is glorious.

Before you knew it, the clicking and whirring and banging was done. You have no idea how long Lord D held you in his sweet embrace, but you could completely understand how some people find him too beautiful to resist. How they succumb to his influence and let him move into their lives permanently.

You're not sure how you got home -- you may have floated, but more than likely, your mother took you. She got you settled, then left you to your slumber. Hours later, you're awakened by your family coming in from their day. You have your dinner, and life goes on.

For a day or so.

Then the doctor calls you at home. Himself. After dinner.

He tells you that the new test showed nothing new, which (he explains) is good news. It means that most likely, the worst-case scenario that's been running through your thoughts -- a cancerous brain tumor -- is highly unlikely. Also unlikely, but not ruled out is Multiple Sclerosis, which was the close second on the nightmare top-five possibilities.

What is perfectly clear, however, is that you have a small mass on the right side of your brain that doesn't belong there. It could be scar tissue, though you have no memory of any head injuries. It could be "something else", they simply don't know.

The doctor tells you that he's going to have to 'keep an eye on it' for a while to see if there is any growth activity, though at this time you don't know quite what this means, except that you will have another date with Lord Diazepam in your future. He said not to worry, that he'd review all the results from all the tests when you see him in 10 days.

On the heels of that, he tells you that if you have any heaviness in your limbs, or any loss in hearing/sight, to go the hospital immediately -- preferably the one where the MRI was done, as they'd have immediate access to the scan data.

But don't worry.

So all you can do is wait.

In the interim, you have more blood drawn, which is nothing compared to the MRI. A few days later, you suffer a death in your family, and are distracted from your medical drama by your son, for whom this is his first loss. Once things settle down on that front, you have another test -- this one is an EEG.

When you arrive at the hospital, you're completely relaxed. This is a test you could do in your sleep -- in fact, they actually prefer you do. So you got up extra early so you'll be a bit fatigued, you refrained from eating or drinking anything that had caffeine or "too much" sugar in it, and 30 minutes prior to your appointment, you make your way to the hospital. The tech, a lovely man named Raphael helps you onto the hospital bed.

He gives you a scalp massage, as he marks all the places where the electrodes need to go. You're drowsy even now, as he takes his time, nearly 10 minutes' time, in getting you all wired up.

Then he dims the lights, pulls the shades, closes the heavy oaken door, and retreats to his computer cubby. His soft voice comes through the wall -- "Just relax."

No problem.

The 30-minute test seems to take a heartbeat, as you breathe deeply and settle into slumber. When Raphael gently wakes you, you see he's set up a strobe in front of your eyes for the final portion of the test. Even its insistent blinking can't make you un-relax. As far as tests go, this one you'd recommend to anyone.

You get another scalp massage as Raphael removes the electrodes and rubs away the china-marker marks he had made earlier. He tells you that the results will be waiting in the doctor's office, in time for your appointment next Tuesday.

Today's only Thursday.

So you wait.

When Tuesday comes around, the doctor is (amazingly) on time. He brings you back into his office, and asks thoughtful questions about your symptoms. You answer thoroughly. He tells you that the blood work all comes back normal. So did your EEG.

Those niceties out of the way, he delves into the MRI results. He brings up the scan series on his computer and you stare, transfixed, at the gray-and-black blob that is your brain. You watch as he cycles through the scan's images, slightly horrified, but completely intrigued as the images crawl over the top of your head, and you can see your eyes. Your actual eyes. It's gross and fascinating all at the same time.

"The optic nerves look great," he says. Yeah, you already kinda figured that as your symptoms did not include any loss or degradation in vision.

There's a thick white mass in the middle of your brain, and just for a moment, you're scared. Then you remember your high school biology, and realize that this is probably the ventricle that helps with the blood flow to your brain. The doctor confirms your recollection, and you start to relax.

Then you hear that word.

"However".

However, see this slightly less-dark-gray blob next to the ventricle? That's the mass. To your eyes it looks huge, but he assures you that they measured it in millimeters. You're a math geek, so you know how small those are. But you also know it doesn't take too many of them to make up an inch. This mass is something close to an inch in diameter.

"But it's not white," the doctor says.

If it was white, it'd be a brain tumor, though they wouldn’t be able to tell it was cancerous without a biopsy, and you're glad, because a buzz cut would not be a good look for you. Plus, the idea of someone cutting into your head scares the ever-loving shit out of you.

"It could be anything," the doctor says. "Overall, the test was inconclusive."

But it's not white.

The doctor also shows you a lateral slice of your ventricle, and shows the lack of spots. That's apparently a very good sign as well. It means if, and he stressed if, IF you have MS, it's in the very very early stages and there's no harm in not medicating at this point while more tests get run. You whole-heartedly agree. You don't like taking pills as it is; you certainly don't want to take something you don't need.

The doctor asks more questions about the tingling, including one about Lyme disease. As in, have you ever been tested for it? You haven't, so he writes up another blood work slip.

He also tells you about a test they used to do "before MRIs were so widely used,” It’s called an Evoke/Potentials test. Basically, it's an EEG on your whole body -- but with electric shocks. The techs measure the amount of time it takes for the shock (mild, I'm assured) to reach your brain. You don't know much about the test yet, but WebMD is your next stop.

Soon, the doctor's administrative assistant will call and tell you what hospital to go to for your tests and when.

Soon, you will know if you have Lyme disease, which (if you do) is so far advanced as to be impacting your neurological functions, and scares you. But there's really nothing you can do.

Except...

of course...

to wait.

~ Hath