This week I had an MRI scan, never had one before. Lumber/sacral spine and brain. For the last 20-odd months I have had numb legs. Both of them, constantly, never wears off, sometimes gets worse. Pins and needles, ‘electric’ zingy pain, prickling, tingling, no feeling in parts of my feet, feels like chilblains. The skin is numb on the outside, like wearing neoprene, and it gets worse the further down the legs we go, the less I can feel.
At first I thought it was related to my thyroid medication, as this was being adjusted when it all started. Then I thought I might have lymphoedema, then I thought it was lipedema, then maybe chronic venous insufficiency, then peripheral neuropathy caused by nerve compression within my twisted, crumpled pelvis. Then I got worried enough to go to the doctor, again. I had previously mentioned it, twice, but it had been disregarded.
I managed to see a different doctor, who did a nerve exam. The upshot of that was a referral for an MRI scan, to see if they can see what might be the cause. See if it’s in my back, pelvis, or in my BRAIN. I hadn’t been expecting the brain bit, but at least they’re being diligent.
Of course, I’ve been anxious. People have told me how awful and loud and clangy and claustrophobic it is inside the scanner, often with some glee. I was worried about not being able to stay still enough, and getting cramp, feeling claustrophobic, having migraine or a panic attack. The prospect of cramping was the worst of these; I have no control over the reaction I have to my frequent leg cramps, usually a lot of hopping and staggering about, not really possible inside a massive magnetic coffin.
The appointment was early, so traffic was light and the carpark had plenty of spaces. I didn’t have to wait long. I had earplugs and headphones, my head was wedged into the head frame, my legs slightly raised on a cushion, and a further frame placed over my face.
‘We’ll do your head first, then the spine. Keep still, squeeze the button if you need to say something, otherwise we can’t hear you. It’ll be about 40 minutes.’
As I slid into the tube, my brain set off with all manner of apocalyptic scenarios garnered from dystopian films and books. What if they left me there, what if it breaks and they can’t get me out, what if the hospital burns down and everyone runs away. What if this is some sort of mad experiment on middle aged women’s brains.
The noise, when it started, seemed better than I’d been led to believe. It was certainly more melodic than the metallic clanking I’d expected. Very bassy, like a Red Hot Chilli Peppers intro, with a bit of Muse thrown in, heavily laced with Rage Against the Machine then overlaid with Kraftwerk synths. But after about five minutes I started to feel slightly sick and unable to breathe, as if I was choking. I thought about prisoners in Guantanamo or Abu Ghraib, forced to listen for hours to the worst of US rock music at insane volumes.
It took its toll. Very loud, very close, and utterly relentless. Add in the claustrophobia, a clamped head, a body which tends to seize when it doesn’t move, and the cold; it was pretty arduous. When my time was up, I struggled to sit up. My POTS* kicked in big-time, spinning the room. I still couldn’t breathe properly, I was wound up — on the ceiling, my mother would have said. My lower back had gone into spasm because I’d been lying on it unmoving for three quarters of an hour. My nerve endings were jingling. I was on high alert and overwhelmed. My hands were shaking.
So what, I hear you ask, was delightful about all this? While my medical care has been sometimes hit-and-miss, on this occasion it has been great. The wait for the scan was quick, the process easy and it has cost me no money. I’ll wait longer for the results, such are the NHS backlogs, but now we have something to start to work with. I have other tests scheduled for the next month. It may turn out to be something that can’t be fixed, or that’s easily fixed or something awful. But those things are all worth knowing.
There’s a lot of places in the world where I wouldn’t have that opportunity. The majority of the world’s population does not have equality of access to free or affordable healthcare. I do. The NHS may have its flaws, but I’d rather that than deal with what many people have to suffer. And I didn’t have to part with a single penny for this scan, and won’t have to for any treatment that might follow. Can you imagine! Here I am, completely covered, as is everybody else. The waiting room this morning was pretty full by the time I left, everyone with their own worrying story, but everyone getting the same opportunity and not worrying about how to pay for it all. And that’s what’s delightful.
Thank you for reading.
* POTS: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.
I never use AI in my writing, despite the presence of em-dashes or brackets other things that some people claim proves AI usage
For more about JB Priestley’s book Delight, from which I originally took my cues, please take a look here:
Goodness, how traumatic, but certainly a relief that it was provided quickly by the NHS. Good luck with the results, sending very best wishes…
That sounds like a deeply unpleasant experience but, as you say, we are so lucky to be able to access this type of investigative scan, free of charge (for the time being, at least). This must be an anxious time for you. Sending positive wishes your way. Xx