January 2021: Graduation

Through the whirlwind (winding, flaring, large crackling dumpster fire of various items) that was 2020, the timeline on my upcoming scans approached faster than I expected.

My health these days fits within the “no news is good news” category and the numbness in my hands seems to be nearly nonexistent, or at least I have to really pay attention and consider if I’m feeling a slight tingling or not. 

I had my scans on January 2. It’s a delightful weekend pastime.

The nurse leads me back through winding beige hallways and asks if I’ve had an MRI before. I tell her I have MS, I was diagnosed in July 2019 and I currently just monitor by the scans that we are about to do.

By now, I’m a champ at MRIs.

I’ve even repeated a few of the same nurses now. I know the questions they will ask and roughly how much time I likely have left in the tube.

No, I don’t have any issues with confined spaces for long periods.

No, I don’t have any metal in my body.

Or recently in my eye.  

Or in my bra.

I haven’t had a colonoscopy in the past six weeks. Amen. 

The vein in my left arm is best to use for the port.

The hospital gown will fit poorly, missing a tie or snap, if not two. I’ll wrap it awkwardly around my waist so I can hold on to a (hopefully) remaining tie with my non-ported arm so to minimize the chances I’ll flash anyone. The gown will drape too loosely off my shoulder, flopping down in a way that surely also says ‘healthcare, but make it fashion’.

Often, the nurses will ask about the tattoos on my arms while I look away out of queasiness from needles and plastic ports and the tape they tamp the whole setup down with. I’ll say the left arm is in Latin and I got it in Canada years ago. My forearm is a group tattoo from a women’s retreat in El Salvador. My right arm is from Bali.

Yes, I should probably hit the bathroom one more time while I have the chance just to make sure.

The nurses likely won’t know who Brandi Carlile is for setting up the music they play in the headphones. So, it’s best to give them a second option like Coldplay if they can’t find it on the first go, less you’ll be stuck listening to Belinda Carlisle or something else for a couple hours.

Sure, I’ll take a pair of the crummy hospital socks they give you.

And HELL YAAAS, I will take a heated blanket, especially in winter, because hospital gowns are drafty AF.

No, I don’t have strong reactions to the contrast dye.

Yes, I know the drill. Brain. Spine. Contrast. Spine. Brain. Done.

I’ll assure the nurses I’ll hold the bottom of the tube with the emergency “get me out of here” button because it’s just about the most sensitive device ever made and I don’t want to bump it on accident and slow them down for kindly stopping a scan to check if I’m ok.

I’ll assure them I’m good at this and we’re going to aim to knock this out in one shot, no stops. I have failed at this once before though because I fell asleep during a scan (twice) and twitched enough they had to start those scans over. I have a history of falling asleep in weird places.

The beeps, clanks and bangs of the machine drown out any resemblance of music coming through the headphones that fit tightly over my earplug-stuffed ears, and just tightly within the confines of the head guard that keeps you from moving. When it stops before the next round of scans it’ll sometimes be a different song, which you’ll hear for a few seconds before the next one starts. It’s ok. It’s the thought that counts.

And you’re just there hanging out for one and a half to two hours less the times they kindly check on you over the speaker, or pull you out to inject you with contrast. Which smells odd and slightly metallic, but I try not to think of it each time because you have to sign a long form that you understand you should not get pregnant the day after receiving it, so it must be a heck of a strong cocktail.

The hardest part is when you’re getting down to the last few scans, your scull starts to hurt from laying on a hard plastic board for so long, it gets to be a little ‘Jesus, take the wheel.’

The conversation with the nursing staff over the next two hours is normally along the lines of “are you doing ok?” and “we are on scan three now, and it will be six minutes long”. I usually answer with “yep” and “ok” unless I have any jokes that come to mind on the lack of beverage service available.  

Except, this time was different.

My nurse’s voice comes through on the intercom from the other room after the second scan of my brain – which is at this point is like stopping during mile two of a marathon – and asks me a question.

“When were you diagnosed, again?”, she asks, the tone in her voice seeming overtly inquisitive.  

“July 2019.”

Nothing back.

I wait longer. Still nothing. 

The scans start again.

This is strange, I think to myself.

Nurses in the MRI area are nice and maintain a certain neutrality during these times, mostly just to make sure you’re as comfortable as can be during the process. They see inside your body from the other side of the glass window and they are surely qualified and trained as to at least partially discern what may or may not be going on in there. But despite that knowledge, they don’t give you any indication one way or another about what they may see, good, bad or ugly.  

During round two of MRIs during my initial diagnosis in 2019, I got a whiff the outlook might not be too good, as the nurse just seemed a little too kind that I was there for the second time in a week. She asked about my travels with a tone of cheer that made me think something was wrong.  

But this one was a specific and personal question, early on in this two-hour process, about my disease.

Outlier.

January 2021 MRI of my brain showing no advancing lesions.

I know she is looking at multiple screens on her side that currently show my brain. But I also know she is not a doctor and likely can’t discuss with me anything she is seeing on her end, no matter how many years she has spent tucking heated blankets around patients, looking up their favorite music, injecting them with dye and scanning their insides.

Knowing this, the days leading up to my appointment with one of my neurologists, I was a bit jittery. I hemmed and hawed at what that question might have meant.

Overthinking, table for one, please.

January 2021 MRI of my spinal column showing what is left of the lesion and no advancements.

While my numbness is now slim to none, it’s always reassuring to see confirmation reflected in my MRIs, especially as lesions can pop up without symptoms on rare occasions.

My scans still look good, with major lesions having improved or shown no change from June 2020, and a significant improvement from July 2019.

My neurologist said I’m no longer active or progressing – thus we can officially call remission. As such, and given these improvements, I’ve now graduated from having neurologist appointments and MRIs every six months, to now only once every year, unless anything changes.

As for the questions from the nurse mid-scan, I can only assume my lesions are healed enough to not be detectable on an MRI without the use of contrast medium, since I was in the pre-contrast portion of my scan when she asked.  

So, the thought and hope of that possibility, and the tangible milestone of graduating to one-year appointments, feels like real progress.

Cheers to starting off 2021 in health.