This Sunday, I have scheduled a very expensive and much-needed treatment for myself. It's happening downtown, in the middle of the afternoon. Ben isn't coming with me; it's definitely an "adults only" event. Mind altering substances will be served. Then, I get to come home and take a nap.
Before you begin cursing me for having the gall to check myself out of the most honored day of the year for mothers, let me tell you a few more details about my "treatment."
It is short - in terms of duration - 45 minutes for a couple thousand dollars (at least I'm not paying the bill).
It is not relaxing- unless you enjoy traveling into a small, narrow tube (which I don't; I even hate airplanes).
I'll have an IV - and it won't be filled with great drugs. Instead, it's used to pump dye into my veins. (Yay. I so love the idea of synthetics in my body.)
The irony is this: last year I spent Mother's Day alone. In a hotel room in Reno. Sick as a dog. Trying to get better for a training session that I never did muster up the energy to attend. Did I mention that I was in Reno? Alone? I told myself that the next Mother's Day would be different. Little did I know just how different.
So instead of doing the traditional Mother's Day outing that I had envisioned - dragging Ben to church, rewarding him for good church behavior with a donut brunch, and maybe letting him humiliate me with a long round of miniature golf - I am going for the dreaded, yet necessary MRI.
My pituitary gland is finally getting the look-over that it very much deserves.
I did some reading on the internet to anticipate worry about the details of the procedure. Specifically, I really wanted to know about the drugs I'd be getting. The drugs that would keep me from freaking out in the tube. The drugs that would make it just a little bit okay that I have to go into the tunnel, instead of golfing in the sunshine with Ben.The drugs that would help me be a bit more zen with the whole experience. And I realized, that's gonna take a whole lot of drugs.
I learned that some MRI centers have a "BYOB" policy as in "Bring Your Own Benzos." I called my facility this morning and to my relief, they dispense Valium. But only on weekdays. Yikes. "Feel free to bring your own," the receptionist said. Oh yes, you bet I will. Then, she hit me with a list of screening questions.
1.) Are you claustrophobic?
"Uh...YES. Why else would I ask you about THE DRUGS?"
2.) Will you be bringing a child with you?
"A child? Is this like, a field trip? I would bring my small child...WHY? So that he could explain to his therapist in a few years that the reason he suffers from anxiety is because he had to watch his mother go into a small tube and freak out for an entire hour and it just so happened to be Mother's Day???"
3. Do you wear a pacemaker?
"How old do I sound to you?"
4. Are you allergic to iodine?
"How would I know? I only eat sea salt."
5. What is your diagnosis?
I search the paperwork. Do I know my diagnosis? "My doctor's not terribly communicative. But, oh wait, here it is: Patient has Pituitary Dependent Hypothyroidism." Huh. That's more than he told me. In three visits. I need to hang up and get on Google.
But first, I have a few Valium waiting at the pharmacy. Maybe they threw in a few extra. In honor of Mother's Day.