I’m a real tough kid, I can handle it: Myelogram aftermath

Hey! Hey!

If you’re still here, bless you. That’s more commitment than some of my scans have shown. Yes, somehow, against all medical logic and basic human decency, I’m still an inpatient. This week’s update is short, mainly because nothing happened. Unless you count new suffering as progress.

For this who are reading for the first time, hi! I’m Lucy, a 20-something year old with a body more broken than the NHS! Whilst I could think of greater ways to spend my 20s, if yapping about being a neuro medical mystery helps even just one person, then I’d say that’s a pretty productive use of yapping!

Another survived spinal adventure …

So, remember that CT myelogram? Well, ever since that delightful little spinal adventure, my headache has been… let’s say ambitious. It got so bad they started to wonder if the procedure might have punctured my dura and caused another spinal fluid leak. Just a casual hole in the central nervous system … no big deal!

To be fair, worsened headache and punctured dura were listed as a “potential complications.”

By this stage, my spine felt like it was being used as a pin cushion, and I was starting to resemble a human voodoo doll. Trying to lighten the mood, I was optimistically reassured that if this is the problem, it’s an easy fix! It was almost as if they didn’t know me!

So how was I doing emotionally? …

Oh, I was doing great, if your definition of “great” includes mild hysteria and a creeping feeling that I now live in the hospital. I’d tried escaping mentally via short walks with my parents, but it turns out fresh air doesn’t solve a four-week stay or the crushing awareness that your main medical achievement has been making things worse.

A+ for effort, I guess!

The real cherry on top was Friday’s ward shuffle. Sounds fun, like a hospital dance, right? In reality, I was downgraded (in my opinion) from a shared bay to what they optimistically call a pod. In reality, it was basically a fish tank with walls. I had no idea I was claustrophobic until I found myself in a glass box that felt like a cross between solitary confinement and a medical exhibit. I was ready to discharge myself with the elegance of a hostage escape. In hindsight, maybe I’m not that claustrophobic. Maybe I’d just reached the emotional equivalent of a pressure cooker left on high for too long.

Definitely boiling over …

Luckily, a couple of familiar nurses were on night duty and immediately sensed that I was about five minutes away from a full-blown existential crisis. They moved a few patients around like Tetris blocks and got me back into a proper bay. I would have cried if I hadn’t already used up my weekly tear quota somewhere around week two.

And of course, in hospital sleep is still a mythical concept. Despite wearing noise-cancelling headphones like a tortured celebrity on a long-haul flight, you’re still woken nightly for obs. Because nothing says “healing environment” like a 3 a.m. blood pressure check from someone who you love very dearly, but is way too full of caffeine for your liking. The only positive was the absence of any sort of interval screaming (which I’m beginning to think was just my soul trying to leave).

And that was the grand finale. As it was the weekend, absolutely nothing else happened. Still waiting for CT scan reports … presumably they’re being delivered by medieval carrier pigeon.

It could only happen to me,

X O X O,

Your favourite headache!

Next time ~ Is there a discharge on the horizon of week 5?

‘Cause I’m a real tough kid, I can handle it … ~ I can do it with a broke heart, Taylor Swift, The Tortured Poets Department