On the night of April 11th, I had my dreaded brain MRI. The day before, I woke up with a stomach already tense. On the day of, I tried to keep busy and also stay calm. We are having exceptionally beautiful, truly spring-like weather, so I reclined in a lounge chair outside and did a meditation, a yoga nidra, and a tapping session consecutively.
Yoga nidra is relatively new to me. It’s like a compassionate body scan, which I love, but it includes having an intention in mind and is a little more in-depth. You listen to a calming voice telling you to notice the tip of your tongue, your teeth and gums, the inside of your right cheek, the inside of your left cheek…. All through the body, each toe and finger. Then hemispheres of the body and brain. It’s interesting and takes a lot of focus and concentration. Which is exactly the point, to be grounded in the present moment and in your body. I really recommend trying it; there are lots online, and they vary in length. Here’s one I like.
As the afternoon slid closer and closer to evening, I kept imagining going into the MRI machine with the coil over my face. I didn’t know how close it would be to my face, or how close the coil would be to touching the inside walls of the machine, and I was very anxious. I didn’t feel stomach-twisty nervous, but very quiet and subdued. I didn’t know if all my nervous-system-calming prep work had helped at all.
When I’d gotten my c-spine MRI last month, the tech told me that I should use “the mobile unit” for the brain, because it’s newer and has more “bells and whistles.” I did indeed get scheduled for the mobile unit. I hoped that the bells and whistles included headphones with which I could choose music to listen to.
Walking into a nearly empty hospital at 7:30pm is weird. But nicer than walking into a crowded hospital. We got to the room to check in, and a sign outside instructed us to go downstairs. Did that. Then the nurse (?) came and took us back upstairs, through the first darkened room, past the sign outside it, and down the length of the entire hallway. There my husband sat while I was escorted through some doors and then through doors to the outside, where, in a parking lot two “mobile” MRI units sat. They had some very solid ramps leading up to them, and I assume they are no longer mobile. They are big metal boxes that remind me of blood donation vans, but way bigger.
In a room the size of a small shower stall, I had to get undressed (except socks and underwear) and put on paper shorts and a gown. The chair took up 85% of the space, and when I lifted one leg onto the other knee to remove shoes and pants, there was no longer any room to complete the maneuver. Fun.
Too soon, I was led past the tech area and into the room with the machine. This one was close enough to the floor that I could sit on the bed part/get myself onto it without needing a stepstool to be brought over. I explained that I have cerebral palsy and have very strong reflexes in response to loud noises. Weight on my legs helps. They didn’t have additional weight in the form of blankets. The nurse put the bolster under my calves, and the tech guy strapped my legs down. A little too tightly. Once he loosened it a bit, I figured it wasn’t as comfortable as a weighted blanket–type sensation, but that it would help overall. Earplugs in. Then he put cushioned blocks on either side of my head to hold it in place. And without a word, he placed the coil next.
The coil was over my face, the emergency squeeze ball was in my hand, and I was heading into the tube. As far as I could tell from my vantage point, the face coil was similar to the one below, but without the little screen attached over it.
I was so relieved not to feel panic welling up within. The coil was a manageable distance from my face. With gentle pressure on both sides of my head, and a warm blanket over me, moving into the tube I felt almost…cozy? If it hadn’t been for the upcoming prolonged and unpredictable loud noises, I would have felt just fine in there. Because of the nearness of the single bar up the middle of the coil, I had to close one eye or the other to have an unobstructed view of the inside of the machine, so this time, I felt calmer keeping my eyes closed. (In my previous experiences, when I closed my eyes, my mind raced more and I felt closer to panic.)
Just like getting through last month’s cervical spine MRI, I won’t say this experience was easy. But it was easier than last time and the time before that. I was surprised to be able to think, “I’m doing this and I am okay.” The noise was still too much, and felt neverending, and I did still have images of myself breaking free of the enforced stillness and getting out, but though my mind had those thoughts and impulses, I was able to resist them and breathe through it.
The cushioned blocks holding my head still really helped me feel more secure and calm, rather than restrained as one might imagine. I was able to relax into them rather than holding myself rigid as I would without them. If I ever have to have another MRI, no matter the body part, I think I will ask for them, if they can be used without the face coil. Maybe I should try sleeping with something like that. I’m not able to sleep on my back because I feel like I have to hold my head up, but switching sides throughout the night means I wake up each time.
I came out for the contrast injection, not allowed to move at all, and then went back in for three more pictures, about ten minutes. I only heard one break in the barrage of sound, so I thought I had one more picture to go when instead, the tech appeared in my peripheral vision and I was set free. I had survived.
When I made it back into the building, I told my husband with surprise, a lot of relief, and a little pride, “That was my best one.”
The next day, I felt happy. I had a bit more energy than usual, and I just felt better. Happy. All the pain was absolutely still there: throat, forearms, hip, back, neck and shoulders, but I had a bit of energy anyway. I was happy anyway. I was looking forward to taking a walk rather than positively forcing myself to go because I know I should.
I thought, well if I could feel like this every day, then I could totally “accept and surrender” and live with the pain and still feel like I was living rather than existing. That’s what The Gupta Program’s goal is–if you can make it to that state, where your nervous system is feeling safe and good, then maybe it’ll stop sending all these unnecessary danger/pain signals. I don’t know what the change was, and it only lasted for that day. Was it the sheer relief of making it through that dreaded MRI? Did I manage to get my brain a boost of the feel-good chemicals? Maybe that boost is where my brain is supposed to be at, and I need to correct a chemical imbalance… It’s not the first time I’ve had that thought. I had a similar (but even more extreme) experience several years ago, where, for one day, I was a better version of myself. My brain felt clearer. I was happy. When I worked with a group of rowdy students, I was patient without having to make myself respond in a patient way. I realized with atonishment that the kid who usually tried my patience was not having a particularly good day; it was I who was having a good day. I understood that people who were able to be upbeat and energetic in the face of a classroom full of kids must feel like this most days. They operate at a higher level of aliveness that I have only glimpsed.
So–what’s going on in my brain? Have I got lesions or whatever else the neurologist was looking for? Here are the results:
FINDINGS:
Brain: No evidence of hemorrhage, mass, shift, or extra axial fluid collection. No restricted diffusion. The ventricles are normal in size and morphology. A focus of abnormal T2/FLAIR signal hyperintensity in the right periventricular white matter, with differential remote sequelae of periventricular leukomalacia, migraines, posttraumatic, or less likely inflammatory causes. Flow voids at the skull base are preserved. There is no abnormal enhancement.
Bones and soft tissues: There is a reniform-shaped T2 hyperintense lesion located immediately posterior to the left parotid gland, measuring up to 8 mm and demonstrating restricted diffusion and enhancement, likely a benign lymph node.
The note from the doctor says the “small white matter lesion in right brain” is unlikely to cause my symptoms. It’s a nonspecific finding that could be “related to headache, prior injury, et al.” Dr. X does not mention anything about the thing that is “likely a benign lymph node.” (Looked it up and the parotid gland is a salivary gland just in front of the ear.) Dr. X seems unconcerned and I was asked to schedule a follow up, which is not available until September.
So, again, I am left with, well, you’ve got hyperreflexia that suggests things that we have now ruled out, as far as spinal compression or brain lesions. Okay then. No one’s saying it could be a CP thing that I just wasn’t aware of until now. (These are upper body reflexes, and officially my CP affects my lower body.)
I’ve been through so many information-gathering appointments, without any revelations to show for it.
Such is life.
What Happened to Your Legs? 