An MRI has been scheduled. I've been given enough prednisone to...well, I've been given alot. And stuff to knock me out at night. Between the peculiarly searing sense of nerves on fire, and the nightmares that have accompanied the brief descents into a doze, I've not slept much since this started.
(I swear this isn't going to become the ill health blog. I haven't got time for that anyway. I haven't got time for what's happening to me.)
The doctor lets her dog hang in the office, a sweet, well-behaved pooch, and she came up to me to check me out. It's been awhile since I visited the office, but she came over to say hello, and then she wandered off to visit with some others who were waiting, and then she came back to me, a frown furrowing her broad face. She lowered her head and gently butted me in the knee, then nuzzled the area that is numb, resting her head against me with a sigh. I rubbed her shoulder and told her she was a perceptive pup. Milton, too, has climbed on me, mewing in distress, circling me and trying to settle in on me. I can't sit still long enough for him, though. I know I stink of stress and pain. My blood pressure is through the roof, so much so that the nurse--who always teases me about being dead because I have no discernible temperature, heart beat or blood pressure--murmured in astonishment.
I've already done my homework: both of the surgeons we know, the one who operated on the son and the one who took care of the spouse, do spinal surgery. I am prepared for this, what I consider the worst. Our lady of the ultimate disambiguation, our lady of NO, already realizes there may not be a way out of this.
I'm not excited about the MRI. Looking at my insides seems like voodoo, strange magic. And I worry over what might show up along with the gush of intervertebral goo. Tumors? Irregularities? The surgeon who longed to take apart my head rhapsodized over how far out of normal my skeleton is, drew rhombuses and parallelograms illustrating where I should be.
To me, it just looked like a skull, a neck, delicate tracery of clavicle.
I always tell my loved ones: don't anticipate, don't second guess, don't borrow trouble. I tell them not to do precisely what I am doing now. But I am looking at the long term, everything that starts soon, requires my attention, my participation.
And all I can do is wait.
Go listen to some good music: "Second Guessing" from the album Reckoning by REM. Don't worry, really; other than the pain and weakness, I'm doing pretty well. Poor AT called me last night so distressed, while I was laughing at the sheer stupidity of this situation. Of course, she said the same thing that everyone else is saying: if anyone is going to bulldoze her way to healing, it's going to me. Ye gods, what do I do to give you people these ideas?