I don’t know why I second guess her instinct. Maybe one day I’ll learn.
We arrived in Manhattan early. We dropped Mom off so she could get to her appointment. We parked the car at a better rate than I expected. We walked a few blocks nice and slow. And we arrived at our 9 AM appointment by 8:35. Paperwork completed – we were sent down to the waiting area for MRI.
An empty room, and a few minutes to spare, I stepped into the lady’s room. No sooner did I get in there than I heard Meghan speak. “Calling us already?” I wondered.
I joined her in the waiting room and the shell-shocked look on her face was a mix of horror and confusion.
“Mom, I don’t want him to stick me.”
“Relax, you don’t know. He might be very good.”
“I’m telling you Mom, this is NOT going to go well.”
And, as I tried desperately to calm her rising anxiety, we waited.
We got called back and locked our things in our locker. The technician sized her up and decided her carefully planned outfit would work and she didn’t need to change. Then I asked him if I had to remove my jewelry.
“You can not go in.”
Calmly, ” I am sure I can, she has had countless MRIs and I have stood beside her for every one.”
“I will have to ask my boss. And, we have to see if the braces are OK.”
“But, I told them about the braces when I booked the appointment.”
“Well this is a very strong magnet.”
And with that he led Meghan inside towards the machine and she promptly backed away.
“Mom, my braces!”
To which the technician replied, “You’ll have to reschedule.”
And then the anxiety took hold and my girl began to shake.
“I am very very angry,” I began in my “not so nice” voice. “You have no idea the amount of planning that went into this, and the amount of worry that has been expended by my daughter.”
“I understand…” he began, in his patronizing, not very helpful voice.
And I honestly don’t recall if he got in another word, because Mamma bear was loose.
I can’t even quote myself, because I was that flipped out by this man who dared to tell me he understood. See, I can be reasonable. I really can. You can tell me you are sorry. But you can’t tell me you understand. Because just like I don’t claim to understand anyone else’s life – no one should flippantly tell me they understand. At least not until they have seen their child through at least 11 surgeries, countless procedures, ridiculous numbers of blood tests, multiple hospitalizations, and countless sub-par phlebotomists. Not until they have sat awake at night calming their child’s trembling fears by touching them – just so they stop shaking in their sleep. Not unless they know what its like to have candid conversations about pathology reports and the virtually insurmountable malignancy fears. Unless they have heard their young girl ask if her children will one day carry this mutation that has caused her so much heartache. Unless they have heard their 10-year-old consider whether its worth it to have their own children… one day.
See sometime two weeks ago we went for a routine follow-up at the vascular surgeon. He did a sonogram of the AVM that caused so many years of heartache, and surgery in 2009, 2010, 2011, and has been blissfully quiet since the last surgery there in February 2012. And he saw some “spongy” spots in there that needed to be looked at. So we scheduled the MRI, knowing that we “saw this coming.” The Celebrex had been destroying her stomach and controlling her knee. The ultimate catch-22. So the worry was about the MRI, and the needle for the contrast, and the wonder about WHEN, not IF the next knee surgery will be.
And all this was bottled up inside of me and came spewing out at this man who dared to casually tell me he understood what it meant to”reschedule” an MRI that had been deliberately scheduled based on time and location to correspond with a trip to the oncologist, and spare her an unnecessary day wasted at a doctor’s appointment.
And as I cried for a supervisor, Toni came flipping around the corner. She sized up the situation, gave Meghan a blanket, sat her down, and told me she was going to fix it. And she did.
I have never in my life seen a supervisor in any capacity who was beyond competent, and extraordinarily compassionate. She got INTO A TAXI WITH US, and took us across town. She walked us into the facility, the entire time reassuring Meghan that she had a special nurse who would handle the needle. I saw the look in Meghan’s eye that said, “That’s what they all say.”
But Toni didn’t lie. Within minutes of walking into the facility we were greeted by Allison, and Manny. Both talked to Meghan. They looked at her arms. They told her a blind person could catch her vein. They told her it would be a butterfly. They told her no IV. They let her pick who would do the contrast dye and did it in such a reassuring way that she knew neither would feel badly if she picked the other.
Then Michelle and Chad made her feel like an old friend. They were so warm and comforting. They positioned her just so, and reassured her in such a way that she took this incredible deep breath. And when Allison came in to give the contrast dye, Chad held one hand, and I held the arm and she never even felt the needle. Chaos turned into probably the most successful MRI to date. Sweet relief.
But we left the facility only for me to realize we were now clear across town without our car. I held my breath and hailed my first cab. (Put that on the bucket list, and took it off in the same day!)
An hour with the oncologist, always plays with my mind a bit, but there will be time to process her recommendations for vigilant screenings necessary with Cowden’s Syndrome.
We left at almost 1, feeling quite like we had already lived several days. Then there was this matter of the “Treat Shop” on the upper West Side. I had planned to go because it was so close to the first MRI site… but not too close to our car. I walked, she limped by the end, and I am sure I will pay for this for days, but we made it. A small store full of glorious Gluten Free treats. And there were 6 dairy and soy free options as well. Heavenly – and my daughter said, “worth the pain!”
An afternoon playing with a friend from school, and the sound of girls giggling, made the horrendous morning, and the most unforgiving traffic I have seen in recent memory begin to leave my neck and shoulders. As the tension began to release I found myself reflective. Hopeful. But still unsure.
Watching her at ease on the couch I am reminded not to plan. I am reminded to trust Meghan’s instincts. I am enjoying the cool breeze, and for the moment the uncorrected mess.
I am grateful for Toni, and Manny, and Allison, and Chad and Michelle. If only everyone took their jobs so seriously. Healthcare, and the world for that matter, would be in a much better place.
Even if just for today they made BEATINGCOWDENS a little easier.
2 thoughts on “Compassion Saves the Day!”
I just let out the biggest sigh reading this post. Understanding…with all my rotten, effing appointments I’ve had over my lifetime, feeling your frustration, and you know, reading about her really helps me keep things in perspective. My brain tumor doesn’t seem so burdensome compared to Meghan’s journey.
Thank you for keeping us updated.