Write Through the Pain
It’s not so hard to breathe.
It’s not so hard to hear and see and taste.
The hard part is feeling and allowing words to wrap around the tender, raw and jagged pain that sears and lingers and flares and assaults.
I’ve learnt to smile through the pain.
I now know the anticipation of diagnosis is its own mineshaft of fear.
What will be found?
MS?
SOL?
Both were written on the referral. Not a diagnosis. Just a query. Pain has its own journey and doctors seek the source.
SOL?
How bad could SOL be? El Sol is Spanish for the sun. Surely a sun in my brain would be ok. We need the sun, can’t survive without it.
SOL?
Space.
Occupying.
Lesion.
Nothing wrong with space. Space is beautiful, infinite. Again, necessary. And so innocuous. No need for concern surely.
Occupying. We occupy our homes, we occupy the time. No cause for concern surely.
Lesion. That one sounds a little medical but nothing too scary I’m sure.
What happens when we put those three simple words together? Space Occupying Lesion. That’s what they were looking for. That’s what the MRI was searching for.
SOL. A euphemism for mortality?
I’m thankful for the hymns that sang themselves to me as I lay there with sensations and sounds doing their job on my head. Magnets resonating with my brain.
Afterward, the once kind and friendly radiographer was brisk, professional, distant. Your doctor will get the results. They were his words.
Move on now, don’t ask anything of me. Go. His shuttered manner screamed louder than his few words.
Perhaps he was busy, awaiting the next patient?
The waiting room was empty.
What had he seen? What caused him to withdraw, shut down? What did he know about the inside of my head that I didn’t know?
The voice that rang to schedule the MRI didn’t sound like my own. Not an adult version of me at least. “I’d like 20 cents worth of mixed lollies please”. The same child’s voice asked for “An MRI of my brain please”.
Later I rang my doctor to find out the results. “Sorry, with COVID 19 we don’t want anyone down here at the moment. The doctor will ring you if it is important”.
Days passed. Days and nights aware of my own physical pain and inner angst amidst the global fear in a world we no longer recognise. A virus we can’t see that has swept our planet in decimating waves.
I found my own acceptance. It will be as it will be. We will face whatever yet needs to be faced.
Finally, calls from my doctor. I’m an “essential worker” so still on shift and can’t take the calls.
Smiling still, trying to calm the inner waves while working with a client who doesn’t realise her own potential lethality when she fails to observe social distancing.
Finally, a moment to talk. On hold, then the doctor. He hedges, asking how I’m feeling now, do I still have pain. Yes, I do. It’s always there.
What does he know that I am yet to learn?
No MS.
No SOL.
Thank God.
Trigeminal neuralgia in both sides of my face. Nerves damaged probably from a virus.
Manage the pain.
When the pandemic passes you can see a neurologist and get some help.
Until then, write through the pain.
