Back Against the Wall

Just got back from the orthopedic surgeon.

I’m not sure how common it is for a person to laugh when the doc walks into the examination room, takes one look at you, and says – "Erin… um… it’s not good."

But that’s what I did. I laughed.

Finally had my MRI a week ago. That was… horribly painful. Trying to lay flat and still on a hard table for half an hour in this small tube – so restricted. All the while trying to stifle leg spasms and charlie horses while the echos of beeping and hammering and drumming and shaking – so much shaking – made my head feel like it was about to explode almost as violently as my knee threatened to. Kept thinking… fuck man… what if we had an earthquake right now. Because you know me, don’t you? It’s how I roll.

I don’t know how knowledgeable about the scans themselves the technicians are, but I think maybe they’ve seen enough of them while running the machines to know when something doesn’t look right. I remember, once the exam was over and as I was sliding off the table, bare feet meeting the chill of the tile floor, he looked up from the monitors and caught my eye. Asked again… "Six years, you said? And you’ve never had an MRI before?" I stood there, dizzy and head throbbing, hands clutching tightly the rough fabric of a hospital gown that’s probably been washed a million times yet, shook my head. Asked, laughing, "why… is it bad?"

He didn’t answer. Just pursed his lips and said the doctor would call me to set up an appointment to go over the results. Told me it was okay for me to change back into my clothes – jeans and a Social Distortion t-shirt. Tried a smile. He was young. Couldn’t have been but a few years older than I am.

It’s bad, though. The orthopedic surgeon made sure I knew just how bad today. Kept hammering it home – over and over. Said it’s the worst he’s ever seen. Doesn’t know how I am still walking. There’s no way I should still be walking. Asked me if I’ve had any issues with my bowels lately.

Really? That caught me off guard, at first. But no – no issues. I mean – I haven’t lost control. But I have had to pee a lot lately. Like… a hell of a lot more than usual. I thought it was just a side effect of the pain medication. What the fuck do I know? He said no. It’s a wonder I haven’t lost control already, but the scans show that it’s only a matter of time. And once that happens, you’ve got six hours to get into a hospital for surgery. 

At this point, he’s mostly afraid of paralysis. Said it’s a very real possibility. One wrong move. A twist. A cough. Bending over. Leaning. Reaching. Anything – he said it could be anything. There’s three of them in there that don’t look like they’re supposed to look. One of the discs is so herniated, he’s not even sure where the nerve could have possibly settled. There’s simply no room for it. And if it moves anymore, wherever it is, it’ll go for good. Permanent paralysis. Permanent loss of bladder functionality. 

He said more stuff, but I had stopped listening. Lost in a mix between laughing hysterically and crying. 

Laughing because, finally – I have an answer. Validation. Someone actually taking me seriously. Not just looking at me and telling me I needed to suck it up. That I was being a baby. That I’m only 27 – how could I possibly be in so much pain all the fucking time.

Crying because… you’re right, I’m only 27. How could I possibly be this bad?

Not sure if anyone knows how to read these things, but this is what he showed me – 

 


Side view here. The discs between the bones are supposed to be white, like the horizontal cushy looking things you see up top. The black holes there at the bottom vertebrae show where the discs have completely deteriorated. The white line going from the top center of the scan to the bottom is the spinal chord, and you can see where the two lower discs have herniated into it – the bottom one cutting it in half and making its way into my nerves – the blackish grey lines behind the white spinal chord.

This is a top-down view of that lower disc. It’s supposed to be ovalur all the way around. Not so much though. This is why he says he has no idea where those nerves are settling, and why he’s afraid for me to do anything. Move, really. Because there’s no room for the stuff that’s in there to move with me.

Anyway, he said I’m not allowed to drive. Doesn’t even want me in a car unless it’s absolutely necessary. He took me off work for six weeks while we figure out what’s best. Our next steps.

Set me up with a surgeon for tomorrow. Called in an emergency appointment. Doc had to do one of those "talk into the recorder so we can send it over to the new doc so he’ll know why the sudden urgency." He said words like "high risk" and "immediate surgery" and "full paralysis of lower extremities" and "any moment." I lost the rest amidst medical jargon.

I’m not sure what to do about work. Not really sure what to do about anything right now. 

I’m just… thankful. Really. That’s what it comes down to – for my new doctor, and this one – as weird as that sounds. Because there’s nothing worse than being in non-stop, extreme pain, and not knowing why, when nobody will take you seriously. But they did.

And I guess I’m a little scared, too. I know what this was like for my mom.

I’m afraid of it happening to me, too.