Turbo Cancer: Day 147 - November 5, 2022
Turbo Cancer: Day 147 - November 5, 2022
Heartless
On this day, last year, my mom stayed in bed. She was recovering from the MRI of the day before.
The test was performed at the hospital. It had been both a long, painful wait, and a long, painful test.
We arrived thirty minutes before our appointment. I pulled right up to the door and took advantage of the valet parking. I wheeled my mom to the front desk, where we were instructed to go down a hallway. We were told that our registration desk was at the end of the hallway.
I pushed her wheelchair. We found the desk. I told the receptionist why we were there. She told me that we were at the wrong desk. She told us to go back the way we had come, and then make a left. The registration desk for my mom’s MRI was down a different hallway.
We turned around and went back. As I pushed my mom, I wondered about all the sick people who were trying to navigate through the system without help. I thought about the many lone, suffering people whom I had seen in medical facilities. I felt compassion for those who struggled to walk, but were left to fend for themselves. How did people manage when they were sent down the wrong hallway?
The system was demoralizing.
We found the correct desk and registered for the test. Then, we waited. It was a long wait. My mom was wilting.
After forty-five minutes, I was agitated. For optimal effectiveness, my mom had been instructed to take her pain pill exactly one hour before the start of her test. She followed instructions perfectly, but the test did not start at the agreed-upon time.
As the minutes were ticking by, the pill was losing its effectiveness. The pain was creeping up. My mom was exhausted. I could see that she wouldn’t be able to sit there much longer. But if we gave up, and went home, we would have to go through it all again. The doctors had told us that my mom needed the test. They had told us that, with a little bit more information, they would be able to effectively treat her pain. Giving up didn’t seem like a viable option.
I went to the registration desk several times. I explained that my mom was very sick and that she couldn’t wait much longer. I asked how much longer it would be. I asked if there was anything that could be done to speed up the process. Each time I asked, the receptionist appeared to become more and more annoyed. The more I questioned, the less willing she was to help.
She told me to sit down and wait. She said that somebody would come as soon as somebody was available.
Finally, after an hour, two lab techs sauntered in, smiling and laughing at some inside joke. My mom was hunched over in her chair, with her head in her hands. The technician called her name, but she didn’t answer. The lab tech checked her wristband, confirming her identity. The techs grabbed the wheelchair and took off, at full speed, down the hall.
I quickly gathered up all our belongings and ran after them. They were moving fast. I struggled to keep up, as I tried to explain my mom’s pain, and how difficult it would be for her to lie flat on her back. I told them that she would not be able to straighten her leg. They nodded and smiled.
It was a long test. My mom was told to lie on her back with her legs straight. When she couldn’t straighten her left leg, the technicians tried to force it into position. One pulled her calf, while the other pushed down on her knee. My mom screamed. I told them, again, that she couldn’t do it. They told me that she would have to straighten her leg, if she wanted accurate pictures. They tried, once again, to force it into place.
In the end, they admitted that my mom’s leg wouldn’t move. They said that they would do their best, but that they could not guarantee accurate test results. They used pillows to get my mom into a serviceable position and told her to stay perfectly still.
The MRI consisted of three different groups of pictures. The doctors wanted to see the spine in three sections. Each section took between ten and fifteen minutes. Once one section was complete, the lab techs took another five minutes to reset their equipment.
They warned my mom that if she moved at all, the pictures would have to be retaken. They told her that, no matter how much it hurt, she had to lie there, on the hard table, perfectly still. They let us know that, if the pictures were not clear, it would be my mom’s fault. They said that it was up to my mom to decide how long the test would take. They said that, if the test were to be a failure, it would be my mom’s failure.
It was torture. They were heartless. My mom was just one more in a sea of suffering patients. To them, she was just a part of the job. She was what they had to deal with, to receive their paycheck.
People have done unbelievable things in exchange for a paycheck.
She made it through. She managed to remain still. The test ended.
We then began the long, labor-intensive process of getting my mom home. All she wanted was to be back in her own bed.
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