The Surge Pod and Some Answers

I spent the night in what they called a Surge Pod. I don't know the etymology of the name - related to Surgery? Related to a Surge in patients? Unclear. But it was a large room with six beds, separated by curtains. 

As you walk into the room, my little space was the second from the left. 

By the time I was getting settled, it was already well-past midnight and the room was quiet. I tried not to make too much of a ruckus as I got settled in, but I'm not sure how successful I was. Once again I got hooked up to the machinery. Apparently the neuro team wanted the little finger monitor thing (pulse monitor? it made sense at the time, but I don't remember what the thing does) in addition to standard heart monitor stuff. In any event, they got all the things attached that needed to be attached, and did the routine nurse tasks. 

I leaned back in my bed and tried to calm down... 

But realized that sleep was not really going to happen that night.

My mind was racing. An endless cycle of fears and anxieties, then a round of reassurances (or, at the very least, "don't panic yet" kinds of narratives)... then repeat. I wanted to read some fluffy light read, but found I had trouble focusing.

I turned on some Ted Lasso, since I still hadn't finished Season 2, and let that carry me through a few hours. Thank goodness for headphones, since I really didn't want to bother the other residents of the Pod - who knew what trauma they were dealing with??

Well, I started to get an idea for the woman next to me as she dealt with all kinds of misery throughout the night - she was hot, she was uncomfortable, she needed the restroom but couldn't get out of bed without her heart racing unsafely... she ended up trying - and failing - to use a bedpan.

As I listened to her struggles, I continued to feel the disconnect between how I physically felt and the depth of fear I felt about what might be wrong with me.

My terrible headache faded at some point in the night, but I still couldn't sleep much. I think I gave in around 4:30 or 5, figuring I'd just catnap until morning.

I woke just after six when the famed Neuro Radiologists arrived. There were three of them, and honestly today I can't even tell you what they looked like. I think there was one woman and two men, and they had folders - presumably my images. The Neuro PAs the night before had told me that these were the folks to rely on for a good reading of the MRI results - their whole function is to look at scans like mine and help determine what the best path forward should be.

I was - understandably - groggy as I shoved myself up and tried to greet the trio hospitably (seriously, I know how ridiculous that sounds). One of them took the lead and said a few things, ultimately ending with "you'll follow up for additional care in the clinic in 1 to 2 weeks."

"Oh!" I said. "1 to 2 weeks? Last night it sounded like it might be possible that I would need something sooner."

"Right," said one of them (maybe the same one? It's all a blur!) "[medical jargon, big talk, sentences that made no sense to me]"

Back to me: "Um. Okay. I just... could you just say all that one more time?"

The third radiologist, heretofore the quiet one, jumped in and said, "It's not urgent. What we're seeing is not an urgent need. It can wait for follow up in the clinic."

CUE THE HUGE RELIEF.

I basically forgot that I still didn't totally understand what was wrong, and clung immediately to the news that - whatever it is and whatever it isn't - it's "not urgent." This took some of the scarier prospects off the table and I felt able to breathe deeply again. 

The nurse helped me order breakfast, and I felt okay about waiting for the next wave of doctors to come help me navigate the path forward.

The next to arrive was my neurosurgeon, a tall slim man who I liked at once. He seemed easy going, he introduced himself, and led by saying he wasn't eager to operate. This, again, felt like a big relief. He said we'd see each other regularly in the clinic, and figure out more in that environment.

He explained that they think it's a meningioma, which is probably benign. It may need to come out someday, he said, but we'll be monitoring regularly - monthly to quarterly for awhile, then eventually down to maybe once a year.

The weird news is that no one seems to think the meningioma is responsible for the terrible headache that led to the whole discovery - an "incidental finding," they call it in medical circles. I am still struggling to synthesize that information; I'm really blaming the thing for the headaches, even still. 

Dr. NeuroSurgeon tells me that I'll see the traditional Neurologists a little later, and they'll talk more about the headaches with me. He noted that the Attending for that team, who will supervise my care, is one of his favorite people, and that I would be in good hands. Assuming they didn't find anything problematic in any of my symptoms or conditions, I could likely go home that day.

PHEW. 

In the next post... what happened at the Clinic and the road ahead.