The Open MRI

August 14, 2016

I am claustrophobic.  There, that doesn’t sound like such a big deal.  Except that it is.  Especially when I am required to do something that triggers it.  And, it’s getting worse.

For the past 9 months or so, my headaches (I have a history of migraines) have been changing.  Those who share this malady with me know that the doctor always says, “If your symptoms ever change, let me know.”  So I did and she responded with “Let’s get an MRI/MRA.”  So I went and they hooked me up to the IV, laid me on the skinny sliding table with my head inside a form that shaped around my neck and head.  Ok, not too bad.  Then he packed stuffing around my head so I couldn’t move.  Ok, not great.  Then came the Hannibal face cage….that locked in.  Nope, not good.  With my heart beating out of my chest, he took it off and let me do a little relaxation.  Then we tried again.  He locked in the cage and he started to slide me inside the “open” (that’s like calling a casket “open”) MRI.  I lasted about 5 seconds and then I Meghan Trainor’ed it (yes, I’m making it a verb).  “Nah” to the “Ah” to the “No,” “No,” “No.”  I went home.

The doctor then called in Xanax for me.  If you aren’t familiar with the drug, it’s basically a chill pill.  Back to the imaging center I go.  Tim is with me this time as my designated driver and support.  I take the medicine as prescribed, and get the IV hooked up again.  Back on the table, head packed, Hannibal face cage and I am visibly trembling this time.  Chill pill my ass!  So I take two more pills 30 minutes early which gives me a total of 1 mg of Xanax flowing in my system.  After waiting a bit of time to let the medicine take effect, we tried again.  Skinny table, head packed, Hannibal face cage of death, and my heart pounding.  That’s when the tech said, “Oh, the doctor added on imaging the neck so we have to do this part too” and he held up a device that looked like the front half of a cervical collar.  He put that on up under my chin.  Skinny morgue table, head packed, Hannibal face cage of death, cervical collar, my heart pounding, and now terror.  With tears streaming down my face and into my ears because there is no way to wipe them, all I could manage is to wiggle my head side to side to say “no.”  I cried the whole way home.  Tim asked, “What is wrong?”  “It was just so scary.”  And shameful.  I got home and not wanting to face anyone, I just went to bed.  Thanks to the Xanax, I slept 13 ½ hours.

I recognize that I feel a lot of shame with this.  I know that shame cannot live in the light so I am in the habit of telling people about it when I feel shame.  That usually takes care of it.  But not this time.  It’s been a battle even though I am being open with it.  Part of the frustration is not fully understanding the root of my phobia.  A few years ago, I figured out my fear of heights as being rooted in a loss of control of my body.  Just that realization greatly alleviated my fear of heights.  I believe my claustrophobia is rooted in the same thing but that realization has done nothing.  In fact, it has gotten worse over the last few years.  I don’t understand it.

This past week I was reminded of a time when I was trapped in a bathroom for 1 ½ hours.  I don’t remember being especially scared but I certainly remember not liking it.  Then, a few hours after remembering that, I saw Cora walk by.  Well, it wasn’t her because she passed away a couple of years ago but it sure looked like her.  It was Cora’s bathroom that I was trapped in.  It was weird that these two things happened so close together.  When things like this happen, I always wonder what God is doing.  I wish I knew.

What I do know is that just telling this story was difficult for me.  Reliving it as I wrote it made my heart pound and my breathing fast.  I’ve had to take three breaks.  I also know that I need counseling on this but, ironically, as a counselor I am having to work my way there emotionally.  I know that the road to healing is paved with a lot of revealing.  I know that God is working but I sure don’t know His plan.  I was reminded in church this morning of something Charles H. Spurgeon said, “When you can’t trace God’s hand, trust His heart.”  I’m trusting.

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I entrust my life.”

Psalm 143:8