It is not easy having 17 staples in your head.
This is not what I imagined would happen a week ago, or even yesterday.
The headaches had plagued me for months at that point. Each rise from my pillow brought forth a snaking pain that slithered from the base of my neck to the front of my head. As the morning antics progressed and the kids clammered over their cereal bowls, I’d dip my head in my hands, breathe out, and take 3 Excedrin.
For nothing.
And god forbid the moments I had to sneeze. Or cough. Or shit. Strain my head in any way. I’d grab my whole head and cry as the pain clapped through each vessel.
I knew this wasn’t normal.
An evil seed slinks through each second of my morning. Rattling the tail in rebuke just as I’d wash my face for the day.
But everyone said what were the odds of it being anything more than stress? Internalized trauma? Allergies?
After a month of roaring mornings, I called my primary in a full-blown panic attack.
“Nothing is working, and I want whatever test you can give me.” I barked over the phone in our Telehealth appointment. Dr. Murch is the best. He knows me, he treats me like a human, and he does whatever I ask.
“Okay, girl, I’m gonna give you some Neurtec for the headache, but if that doesn’t work… It’s not a headache.”
He pauses. “I’m also going to order an MRI without contrast just to make sure everything is okay.”
“Please. Yes. Thank you. All the tests!” I agreed.
That is where the relief sets in. Imaging. That is what I need right now.
Wednesday, May 14th.
The Day Before Admittance.
I immediately follow up with imaging and get an appointment for the following evening. By the time I get there, they are running an hour late but I don’t give a shit. I would’ve waited until midnight just to be sure there was evidence of my breaking skull somewhere in the ether. I struck up a conversation with an elderly man named Lester in the waiting room. Lester tells me how he lost his first wife before she turned 50, and I get misty-eyed. He promises I’ll be okay, and has the entire imaging staff promise to “take care of me.”
“Thank you, Lester! Good luck!” I yell from my dressing room.
They call me down the hall, it’s my turn to enter the MRI tube. They give me headphones, though it does little to calm the bass.
For those of you who have never succumbed to an imaging tunnel: An MRI machine is a DJ booth.
Clanks and bangs pull me back to Dragonette’s 2011 club smash song, “Hello.”
Dunnn-dunn-dunnn-dunnn-dunnn-dunnn-dunnnn
I try not to tap my foot.
“Do you want to listen to something else?” The tech asks.
“Creedence Clearwater Revival?” I answer in question. “I don’t think anyone can have a panic attack while listening to them.”
She nods in approval and slides me back to the end of the tube. I count through three songs while sitting totally still for the duration of the 20 minutes. The last one asked me if I’ve ever seen the rain, before they slide me back up again. Yes, Mr. Fogerty, and I wish I were listening to that instead of pinging of drumsticks reading my brain cells. Because that’s how this works?
“You did great! Go through your clothes and they will give you the image up front.
Yessss, I think to myself.
The imaging.
I think of how I’ll dash home and throw this into my laptop and obsess over what I can’t read.
It is 8:00 before I am out the door with a CD-ROM in my purse.
I get home, and it’s a catastrophe.
There is no CD/DVD drive port in my laptop, and the Xbox can’t read it either.
What is this? Medical service from 1990?!
I curse over and over, and Gable thinks of any place we might have an ancient CD-ROM.
“I’ll take it to work with me tomorrow,” I say, and give up.
I’ll go to bed and review this tomorrow.
Little do I know, the way I will review this tomorrow will be in a complete hellscape.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 