This morning I went for a CT scan. It's nothing, there's nothing wrong with me, it's just a precaution. Probably. Even though I have asthma, allergies, moderately high blood pressure, some trouble swallowing occasionally, frequent colds, and a history of minor chronic ailments, I generally feel like a healthy person. There's definitely no danger of my becoming anorexic.
Last year I had a scan for an unrelated reason, again no big deal. But it turned up a little spot on my kidney. (From Hannah and Her Sisters: "I was worried -- I found a spot on my back." "It was on your shirt!") It's a cyst, said my GP, but since your health insurance may run out soon, why don't you go see your urologist, who knows more about this kind of thing than me. (We have since found new health insurance, but that's a whole different story.) The urologist, a jovial sort, says it's nothing. People have little cysts on their kidneys all the time. Think of it as your own personal urinary Dippin' Dot! Anyway, just to be sure, why don't we wait six months and do another scan, to see if it's grown at all.
I thought, maybe it's one of those undeveloped twins you read about, a tiny little head with arms, growing out of my kidney, just waiting to gain enough power to take over my brain and force me to start killing hobos. This is a theory I developed in film school, not med school.
So the six-month check-up scan was this morning. I've had MRI's and CT scans before -- that's right I've done it all sister -- and I've had claustrophobia issues. Particularly during an MRI on my head years ago (negative on all counts, including personality). They put you on a motorized bed and slide you into a tunnel not much larger than you are. Sort of like being in a smooth white coffin, open at both ends. But the openings at both ends don't do much to calm the feeling of being closed-in. I barely made it through the MRI, which lasted forty-five minutes, and the only way I did it was to close my eyes the entire time. The nurse, who promised to stay by the intercom at all times, actually wasn't there one time when I called out to her. Nice.
So before I agreed to this current CT scan, I made my urologist -- a really good sport -- show me the machine. Telling me it was no big deal, he took me to the CT room. This machine was really just shaped like a big donut, only about a foot thick, not at all like a tunnel or coffin. OK, I said, I can do it without any prescription relaxers -- but really maybe feeling a little peer-pressured into saying "no problem." Besides, if I took a stress pill, then Ellen would have to drive me, a big pain in the ass, I can handle it.
Or so I thought. When they had me lie down, and the little motorized bed from hell moved me into place inside the donut, it started to look a lot more like a tunnel. Sure seemed like my head was pretty closed-in. And if I started to freak, getting myself out of this damned oppressive donut would be very difficult. I could feel it coming on -- a bit of a panic attack. I had to consciously control myself: don't ask to be taken out, don't try to get up and out, don't start clawing frantically at the machine and sobbing uncontrollably. Conspiring against me: the room is kind of cold, the machine makes a whine like a particle accelerator, and although I am covered by a sheet, my dungarees are around my ankles.
The scan starts with my head almost directly inside the donut but slowly moves me out during each of five scans. (We're scanning my kidney, remember.) The moving out feels good, the stress ebbing. But after the first one, moving in again, looking up at the machine very close to my face, I decided again to just close my eyes. For the whole duration. If I open them, I just see the machine looming over me and the panic creeps back. Better to keep them closed. Whenever I am moved back into the machine, I can sense through my closed eyes the shadow of the machine over me. I fight the unease. The technician, a personable if young hispanic man, can communicate with me via intercom from the next room where he operates the machine. So I suppose he could hear me also humming a little tune to calm myself (Beatles: "...and in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love... you make").
For each scan, I have to hold my breath. The technician's intercom voice was replaced, incongruously, by a recorded male midwestern voice telling me to stop and start breathing. (The technician told me this voice "came with the machine.") The breath-holding was for 28 seconds, long enough to be slightly uncomfortable. I wish the tech had warned me about how long, because the first one was disconcerting -- I had no idea when Midwestern Joe was going to let me breathe again.
For the last few scans, an iodine IV, just to increase the discomfort. Isn't iodine poisonous? Is this tech some sort of madman, poisoning white CT scan patients to gain revenge for the Aztec Empire? I closed my eyes. Thought of Hawaii.
Then -- done. Gracias, mi amigo! The whole thing lasted about twenty minutes. I leapt off the cot of death and pulled up my pants, feeling a little silly. It was nothing!
I get the results next week, which I'm sure will be nothing other than a $10,000 bill for my insurance company.
But if there is a next time.... bring on the Xanax. Make it a double.
The other day, Ellen and I are tooling around Glendale in my dark gray Prius. Having a lovely time in The Jewel City (which is the inappropriately flattering nickname of our home city).
