I wake up. I’m nervous. Today is EEG day. I’m frustrated doctors at Danish Blueberry Mound did not do the test. This whole process is so drawn out unnecessarily. What if they think I’m making it all up? I read up on EEGs the night before. It suggested not drinking coffee. It’s going to be a long morning.
Excited by the prospect of delicious gluten free maple donuts, the kids are ready relatively quickly. The downside to this is now they have 20 extra minutes to fight before their ride comes. I breathe a sigh of relief when they leave.
I task Dave with dealing with phone calls for kid appointments. This is something I normally get done on my lunch break. Listening to options, he asks, “Do I know their medical record number?”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to,” I respond. I’m mildly amused that Dave gets to experience the frustration of hold lines and faxes not gone through. Dave is more bewildered by the fact that someone still uses a fax machine.
We leave and head downtown. The EEG is being done at a sleep clinic. The sleep clinic is in an apartment building. Dave hits the buzzer and we are let in to the lobby. The lobby is huge with cathedral ceilings and multiple fireplaces. It feels like a hotel whose interior is straight out a Room and Board catalog.
We wait. From the opposite end of the lobby, entering from outside the building, comes a younger woman. The only thing identifying her as belonging to the clinic is her badge. We follow her back across the lobby, through a lovely courtyard, and into another apartment building.
Up the elevator, down the hall, the tech opens the door to a modest bare bones apartment. The kitchen is empty except for tea and coffee. The living room has a couch, chair, and television. The bedroom door is open. The only thing in there is a bed with a beige bedspread on top. There is a camera in the upper right corner of the bedroom above the door.
OH MY GOD! I’M ON THE SET OF A PORN! Okay, no. But seriously? Has no one told them?
The tech leaves us on the couch for about 10 minutes while she “finishes setting things up.” Realizing that this is going to be a long process, about one and half hours, Dave abandons me to put more money in the meter and get a coffee.
The tech marks my head with a pen and then goes about adding little wires to my head. This takes about 45 minutes.
“Do you think you will be able to fall asleep?” Not a problem. I got this.
Part 1: The tech leaves me in the dark on the bed. I twitch away and eventually fall asleep.
Part 2: The tech wakes me up via an intercom system. I wake up, feel buzzy, and then my right arm begins to jerk and then the left joins in. My face moves from twitch to spasms. I’m doing the full grit my teeth, straining chimpanzee look.
From beyond the voice asks, “Are you okay?” Yes. Things are always worse when I wake up. We wait. My body calms. I hope the EEG recorded that little episode.
Part 3: “Breathe in and then out quickly through an open mouth. You may feel like you will pass out.” This is a surprisingly difficult task. After what seems like forever, the tech pipes in, “You’re doing great! Almost halfway done!” You’ve got to be kidding me.
Part 4: The strobe light. I silently pray I don’t have epilepsy and have another seizure. The tech turns on the light, tells me to open my eyes. Close my eyes. You will see patterns and lights and colors, like a kaleidoscope. She’s not wrong. The strobe gets more intense. The patterns get stronger. I’m in my own “Clockwork Orange.”
It’s done. I did great. The tech removes the wires from my head and attempts to release some of the residue from my hair. “You should get the results in a week or so.” Great.
I go home. I grade math tests. I wait. Dr. McHH emails me to let me know my ultrasound looks fine and asks if I am doing okay. The laundry stares at me. I ignore it. I wait some more. Kids will be home soon.
The kids arrive home. My phone pings. I have a message and a new TEST RESULT from the doctor. Deep breath. I log on to the computer. Unlike regular blood labs, I can’t see (and fanatically Google) my test results. At the top of the test is a short note from Dr. Y.
It’s a very short note, but still here are the cliff notes version just for the sake of HIPPA/I don’t want to get sued.
Hi. Things look great. They aren’t seizures. If you don’t feel better in a few days, try clonazepam. Dr. Y
AHHHHHHHHHHHH! It’s a test result so I can’t even hit reply. No phone call? Not even an email to explain the results or ask if I have any questions. Cause let me tell you. I have questions. What the hell was that when my body was wildly jerking during the test? Can you tell me what you DID see?What do you think is going on because I would like to go back to my normal life?
This is not cool. I curl up on the couch and cry. I’m a luddite who cannot make the Ubereats app work. I reheat some pizza. A student emails me for help on his math homework. He just doesn’t get simplifying expressions the way the substitute does it. The medical establishment may not be in my control, but this, this I can do. I open my teacher edition pre-algebra ebook. I solve the problems. I email the student and patiently explain, with examples how to solve.
See doctors? It’s not so hard to answer a question by email. I’m frustrated, but determined. Overall, each day the symptoms improve. I am going to get better. I have an appointment with a different neurologist on Wednesday. I think I’ll keep it. Maybe I won’t need it. I’ll be better by then because I am sooo over this.