Wish You Were Here

Been one hell of a week here at Valhalla by the Sea.

First Rocco shows up looking like the best extra from the set of Night of the Living Dead.

Next, Rosie’s hospitalized with Kidney Crap Out with Thelma running a close second in the Urea Transporter Fail competition.

And then, THEN, I have the first of my yearly MRIs.

Have I mentioned my life long, well developed relationship with Claustrophobia. This ain’t no hook up -- it’s an alliance for the ages.

This, THIS, is how claustrophobic I am:

Elevators
-- Those tiny ones found in pre-war buildings? Nope -- no can do. Period!
-- Big elevators in high rises? ONLY if they’re not crowded. ‘Crowded’ is defined as any number of individuals in excess of myself.

Yeah, I’ve walked up and down 16 flights rather than step onto one of those jam-packed conveyances.

Subway Cars
I CAN and have, for years, ridden the MBTA, the MTA and the U-Bahn but, lemme just tell you, it requires much self control, visualization schemes and the knowledge that it’ll all be over in minutes. Plus, I can NOT get onto one of those cheek to cheek crowded cars. Nope, nevah!

Tunnels
ANY tunnel longer than 4 car lengths is too long. So, yeah, I’m cool with underpasses. Yea me.

The Silver Line from Southie out to Logan Airport? GREAT fast ride through the Ted Williams Tunnel, right? Had a world class panic attack my first time through it. Had NO idea the tube was/is that tight.

Turtle Necks
Hah! Yes, you read that right. Turtle necks can set me off. I once had a beau, Stan, cut me out of one -- a panic attack had moved in when I couldn’t shed the shirt fast enough.
Do I feel pathetic? You betcha!

Somehow, over these past 30 years, I’ve managed to bull my way through my MRIs. This was usually achieved with the help of a nice martini (Sapphire, EXTRA dry, straight up olives -- thenkyew very much) as well as myriad breathing, relaxation and visualization exercises.

It all fell apart last year though. I went six for six. Into the tube and, moments later, screaming to be let out. Mind you, my head’s encased in a cage so I can’t inch my way out on my own or, boy howdy, I sure would have. Hell, just in writing this, I’ve got a little panic ramping up.

I wasn’t, at first, able to sort out what had changed. There’s been stretches of years where I’ve had endure as many as 16 of these suckers -- EACH year. I’d gotten to the point where I required no more than a lovely Pinot Noir and a bit of imagination. Had they become routine? Oh -- fuck no! They were just knocked off the top of the Freak-Donna-Out list. You know, somewhere below ‘large insects’ as sure fire triggers but only just a bit.

After wracking my brain and going full metal analytical about the deal I realized that my  major freak out coincided with Dr. Ojemann’s death. Dr. O, AKA God, was WAY more than my surgeon -- he was my brain minder, teacher, friend and father figure. How would I get by without him?

I talked with Dr. McKenna, another fab-ola dude on my pit crew. He understood, he got it and prescribed a calm-me-down med along with a new, different scheme for ingesting (starting the night before vs 30 minutes prior to tube time).

It worked gloriously.

I’m down to three, max, MRIs per year now. In addition to everything else, I’m out of practice. Each time I have one, I spend a minimum of a week psyching myself up, revving up the engines, doing relaxation exercises and coming up with distraction schemes.

This all, including the necessary Lorazepam and adult bev, takes a lot out of me. I end of with a two day stress and med hangover.

Maybe one of these days, this’ll all be routine-ish again, like it was in the days when Dr. O ruled the OR.

Wish You Were Here -- Pink Floyd