Prologue: Day Two

I know that most people have a 9-5 day job, but I honestly, and pathologically, cannot. I go to bed obscenely late, and I cannot help it. I've mentioned this before, but it's been a fact in high relief with these early days in the stem cell trial. Not only is it early in the process, but it's early in the day. It's driving me nuts.

I told as much to the administrator of my first test today, a pulmonary function test. This takes place mostly inside what looks like a hyperbaric, deep-sea-diving chamber, or, as I also related to the technician, inside a 1950's quiz show booth that ensures silence and complete isolation. I had to sit inside this plain little capsule with a plastic arm with a mouthpiece that the technician attached, I assume for sanitary reasons. The test consisted of a variety of different breathing techniques, both deep and short, shallow ones. I couldn't help but mention its similarity to Nick Nolte's hilarious, infamous 60 Minutes interview where he went through a similar evaluation by a doctor and ended up passing out briefly. Just thinking about it now makes me laugh, and I'm pissed that I can't find a clip online.

Evidently, though, I have good lungs, even at an hour when I'd definitely still be asleep. Who knew? I guess I only smoked copiously in college, and then got too lazy to get addicted, which was not a problem in other areas. The only minor aberration was in my diaphragm. The woman assured me that this was probably due to the MS. I already knew this, of course, because I frequently have to take breaths intermittently when I'm rambling, like Christopher Reeves had to do when he was paralyzed and on that ventilator. Otherwise my pulmonary function is tip-top.

Next up was a MUGA, or a Multi-Gated Acquisition Scan. I had to look this up and test the technician for that, who admitted she had forgotten. Because it's a bullshit, impenetrably technical, esoteric but nonspecific name. (It reminded me of a lot of literary criticism--the worst--where you have no idea what the writer is talking about, and suspect that he/she doesn't either. I'm not one to name names, but I'm looking in your direction, Homi Bhabha.) For this test, I had to receive an injection that contained some form of radioactive marker that the machine, a gamma camera, would follow throughout my heart and entire circulatory system. The syringe even came in a lead canister.

After the injection I asked the nurse if, technically, I could say I was radioactive. She said yes, which was enough for me to grin widely. Also, I had a very hard time refraining from constantly pointing and saying, "Watch out, Radioactive Man!" like Bart in that one episode of The Simpsons, which we all know sucks now and does not deserve a litany of the reasons.

Little sidebar: this was like my fifth shot in two days, so when the nurse saw my arm I had to assure her that I was not a junkie. She laughed, but I still said, "No, really."

I then headed for an X-Ray and CT scan. The first of these went quickly. It was for my torso, so I simply turned when told to do so and walked out after a couple of minutes. The CT scan, though, was a different story.

It was about 1 pm, so I was exhausted and antsy anyway, but I had to wait about an hour in the patient area. Luckily, though, I didn't have to put on a gown, unlike the five or so men in the waiting room with me. I also didn't have to drink the powdered concoction that they did. But I still had to wait an hour. A fucking hour. I didn't bring anything to read in the room, so I listened to some boring but occasionally funny stories about the others' days in the army. I would have chimed in at the mention of the GI Bill, but I was too tired to converse.

After an hour, I was called in for my CT scan, and you have no idea how angry but resigned I was when I found that the test lasted approximately twenty seconds. I lay on a tray that slid, slightly, into the machine. Twenty seconds passed, and the technician emerged from behind the glass to tell me that I was done. The irony of the wait and the beyond-brief test was not lost on me, but I was still pissed. And tired. It was about 2:30, and I was due for a nap. The brevity of the test, however, precluded this. As I've said, I like MRIs because I can always get in a good nap, but this was not possible to do in less than a minute.

When I got home, finally, I melted into my bed. Then I went to the gym--go figure. The caprice of MS still confounds and humors me.

I'm done with these preliminary tests, thankfully. Tomorrow I meet with my doctors--Burt and Balabanov, both of whom I like immensely. Thankfully, because I could be susceptible to lashing out after these dilatory, and almost paradoxically interminable, tests.

As Buzz Lightyear would say, "To infinity! And beyond!" (I nearly said "Onward and Upward," but the following reference to a "Christian soldier" made me think better of this.)

R

(I'm too tired to edit, so ignore any typos or glaring grammatical errors.)