Dangerous Metal and Charlie XCX at the Hospital

‘But is dangerous metal going to rip out of your stomach?!’

Her hospital uniform gave the air of medical education, but couldn’t possibly qualify her for my situation.

‘I guess we’ll find out? It’ll be fine. The surgeon said don’t worry about it so I guess we won’t?’

Boom.

BANG BANG BANG BANG

DOOOH DOOOH DOOOH DOOOH

Plus…the keyboard portion of ‘I don’t care’ by Icona Pop featuring Charli XCX (Have a listen below) cranked to max volume – but just the keyboard part. And the drums. Yes those too.

I was lying down, but I wasn’t dreaming, although it was an absolute migraine nightmare.

Airnailers shooting metal through metal, jack hammers shaking the ground and my brains equally, and post pounders making absolutely sure my head screamed almost as loud as Smooth Radio blasting not so smoothly cutting in and out, well, this shouldn’t still be happening. The two year construction zone beside our place was now beautiful houses converted from barns. (And remember I live in England now so by ‘barns’ I mean gorgeous protected old stone buildings. Did I mention we too, live in a barn conversion? I’m living a dream I didn’t even know I had. Apart from the nightmare I am currently describing.)

No, I was having yet another MRI. Thus the earlier concern regarding dangerous metal.

My past MRI’s have usually been of my brain thanks to a tumour that needed removing off my pituitary gland back in the mid 1990’s (So retro, I know.) and then the need to make sure it doesn’t do a reappearing act. Thankfully my brain is currently intact as far as I know, but it seems I have a little foot problem. By ‘little’ I mean the lump growing in there is little. I have yet to find out the size of the problem.

But what about the dangerous metal ripping out of your abdomen, Susie?!?

Right. Sorry. That is a valid and important question.

In not so ‘retro’ times, like, about four years ago, I had a gastric pacer implanted into my belly, with two wires wormed up through my abdominal cavity and sewn into my stomach. ‘Terry’ as I called him, was meant to stimulate my extremely slow emptying stomach into doing it’s job like a proper employee, but instead needed firing and evicting by extreme measures after two years of a hell-ish relationship. (If ever your boss walks toward your desk with a mask, gloves and scalpel, you’re probably about to be terminated. Just a little heads up there. You’re welcome.) Terry was of no benefit and caused debilitating pain daily. Oh yeah, and I could barely eat. (Good for the figure. Not so good for living.)

Anyway…I had been told there may be little bits still attached to my stomach from that fiasco, but that I shouldn’t worry. Go ahead and have all the MRI’s you want. It’ll be fine, they said.

I won’t lie. It was a teensy bit distressing.

The uniformed lady took ALOT of convincing to go ahead with the procedure and then proceeded to say, ‘Well, let us know if you feel anything strange in your stomach.’ Umm…sure? Okay. Go ahead and turn it on now then. Yikes.

Clearly my hands work fine since I am typing this and therefore didn’t die from metal exploding through flesh, but I sure did have that migraine I spoke of and sort of wanted to. (Not really, but I was about to shout, STOP ALREADY. EVEN IF MY STOMACH DOESN’T EXPLODE, MY HEAD IS ABOUT TO IF YOU KEEP ON WITH THE HAMMERING AND ViBrAtInG AND THE BLASTING OF MUSIC INTO MY EARS (with headphones that kept cutting out just adding to the agony.)

I’LL KEEP THE FOOT LUMP. JUST MAKE IT STOP!

But then it stopped.

Anyway, I am not a wimp but MRI’s feel like archaic torture chambers (that save lives I know, and I am thankful).

Why am I babbling about all of this?

Well, because is it my story playing out, and it might give you a glimpse into why I am so passionate to help others cope and advocate for themselves, medically.