This Is (a) Spinal Tap

I officially got diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in December of 2008. This diagnosis wasn't at all a shock, as I'd been told many times, based on my symptoms, that this is most likely what I had coming. Many people who are sick will explain that feeling of relief of just finally knowing exactly what it is that's wrong with them; my reaction was similar.

MS is a tricky disease to diagnose. Most of its symptoms aren't exclusive to MS; my symptoms were all in my eye, and the issue had its own name: optic neuritis. Therefore, the diagnostic process is often spread over months, symptoms, and procedures.

First, my neurologist (who looks A LOT like James Taylor) took an extensive medical history, followed by an MRI. Now, I realize that MRIs are pretty common, non-invasive procedures but the task seemed daunting to me. I went for my appointment alone and slightly shaking.

I thank the medical gods for my MRI tech. He was a young man covered in tattoos, with gauged ears. I loved him instantly and without him I may have freaked the fuck out being stuck in that box for an hour and a half. He constantly checked in with me over the headphones, made sure I wasn't panicking, and always gently reminded me to HOLD STILL.

He asked me to request music, and I was so nervous that the only thing I could blurt out was that I liked the Beatles, so the Beatles is what I got. It was nice to have something so familiar blasting around me, masking the mechanical whirs and clunks of the machine.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tech buzzed in and said "When this next song is over, you're done," and then I heard the opening lines of Hey Jude start playing. I had two thoughts simultaneously: 1. Fuck this is a long song and 2. That he couldn't have picked something more perfect to get me through this experience.

Unfortunately, the MRI was not the last step on the way to official diagnosis. Dr. James Taylor informed me that, while the MRI showed lesions on my brain, these lesions were not enough to make a definitive diagnosis of MS.

Fuck. What next?

Two words I've never wanted to hear directed at me unless someone was about to start singing Bitch School: Spinal tap.

Panic ensues. Terror that I have never felt about anything else that's happened to me, INCLUDING being told I probably have MS. Fear and anxiety about the pain and the size of the needle and what if they paralyze me and how bad will this hurt and what are the side effects and do I have to be awake?

My terror was so great that I put it off for as long as I could. I scheduled it two months in advance (I had to finish the semester, amiright?) before undertaking this journey into the center of my spine. Plus, Dr. James Taylor informed me that the only side effect is potentially a debilitating headache. A headache that could be SO bad I'd miss work and school for a few days, a week at most.

So I waited. The date of my appointment loomed over me, and every day was full of more and more stress and fear. As the date approached I couldn't sleep, barely ate, and had some SERIOUS stomache issues.

I hadn't cried in front of a doctor in over a decade. The day of my appointment, at the age of 25, I openly wept in front of Dr. J. Taylor, a handful of his nurses, and in the arms of my father. I went into his office and prepared for the procedure (this meant stripping from the waist down, sitting on the bed, and leaning over; a truly vulnerable position). I cried the whole time and the nurses kept telling me I had to calm down, my heart rate was too high, I was too stressed out. Of COURSE I'm stressed out, you assholes. You're about to stick a giant needle into my spinal cord, a thought that is, to say the least, extremely disconcerting. (An understatement).

Finally, I relax. I breathe. Doc Sweet Baby Jane numbs the skin on my lower back. It isn't until now that I'm told that they don't stick the needle in and extract the spinal fluid; instead, they let it drip out of you. That needle will be in my spinal cord anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes. Dear God.

I tell them to go for it. The needle goes in. And never, ever, ever will I be able to forget the sound of my own spinal cord being punctured. It was a nice, crisp *POP*.

And then the waiting. The fear of moving so as not to disturb the needle. The things I'm telling myself to stay calm. And then Doc speaks up.

He begins to explain the aforementioned headache that may or may not ensue. He says that after a spinal tap, the puncture on my back itself will heal in no time. The puncture to my spinal cord, however, won't necessarily heal right away, and my spinal fluid may continue to leak out into my body for hours, possibly even days, after the procedure is done. This leakage may cause a depletion of the spinal fluid that surrounds my brain, causing a headache.

In essence, my fucking brain might sink.

Gee, Dr. Fire and Rain, I'm sure glad you waited until my precious precious bodily fluids were dripping out of my body before telling me this. Luckily, by the time my rage had fully formed, it was time to remove the syringe.

The aftermath wasn't as terrible as I imagined. My lower back hurt like a bitch for a few days, and yes, I intermittently was stricken with a headache, a headache that only goes a way when you lie down (because then the brain gets to relax on that cushion of amazing fluid again).

Worse than the actual physical pain was the generaly weirdness I felt for about 24 hours. My body felt strange, and I don't know if it was due to the emotional stress I'd put on it for weeks, culminating in this invasive and intimate procedure, or, if my body truly understood that it was missing something vital. We lose blood, plasma, hair, and tears regularly. But a spinal tap depletes something special, protected, sacred.

I can handle 50 more MRIs. As a result of my diagnosis, I give myself injections every single day. But never again do I want to be invaded in the way the spinal tap invaded me.

Please, leave my nervous system the way it is, MS and all.