This week was MRI week—the week that the doctors take an hour-long look inside my brain and tell me if my tumor is stable or growing.
I hate MRI week. This month, it coincides with Shark Week. The irony is not lost on me.
The cycle of my MRI and neuro-oncology clinic comes four times a year, with perfect regularity. It's always the first week on every third month. I have an MRI on Monday morning at 10:45 and then I get the results on Wednesday morning at 8 a.m. Each visit requires a trip to the National Institutes of Health in Maryland, where I’m part of a research program where doctors monitor and treat as necessary.
I've talked before about these three-month cycles, how they're nerve-wracking and peaceful, all together. Last time, I was incredibly nervous. I asked Daniel to predict the future, I stopped making plans, I cried. And then, I got good news. Life went on. This time, I was less apprehensive. But still.
If you've never had a brain MRI, they're miserable. On a scale of 1 to 10, with DC traffic an 8, an MRI is a 9. It's noisy, uncomfortable, and if you move, well, it makes a big difference if you need surgery. I always end up having to go the bathroom midway, which bumps the misery scale up to a 10. With earplugs, headphones, and a head cage, it's all kinds of Monday morning fun.
The noise echoes all around your body, reminding me of a very loud dial-up internet log in. Soon, the technician tells me they’re injecting contrast dye in my arm to monitor any hemorrhaging. The dye is warm, and instantly I taste metal.
I drift in and out of restless sleep, not because I'm comfortable, but because there's not much else to do. My favorite technicians are the ones who talk to you through their microphone, who give you time estimates. Finally, finally, I’m done. It takes a minute to get my balance and then I'm gone. Forget small talk, technician. Just take the IV out.
For the next day and a half, Daniel and I ignored most of our chores and relaxed with each other and a silly television show. I wanted to laugh, to be a bit distracted. A friend gave us some homemade cupcakes, which were bliss.
Wednesday morning begins at 6 a.m. to make the drive back to Maryland. Nate’s excited to see the doctors again and to eat his breakfast in the car. At NIH, the brain tumor clinic meets on the 13th floor, which makes me laugh. I’m not worried, though. My birthday is the 13th. Then again, I’m the one with brain tumor.
The doctors are kind and efficient—they hadn’t even washed their hands before they tell me the scans are all good. That’s all I want to know. A few formalities and we’re done for another three months.
The night before, Nate had prayed “for Mommy’s head be okay.” That’s a humbling thing, to watch your toddler son pray for the thing you want the most. Then there are the friends who rejoice with you, and who were praying the whole time. I’m nothing without those prayers, those congratulations.
I hate MRI week, but I’m glad it exists. It gives confidence to my life right now. Confidence that I'm well, that I’m blessed, and that life can go on.