Ever since I could remember, I’ve always been a bit of a hypochondriac. As a child, I’d drive my mother crazy the amount of times I begged her to take me to the doctor. It’s funny really, I’ve always been somewhat apprehensive of the doctors office, yet it never overrode my desire for peace of mind.
So when I started to get strange headaches a few weeks ago, I immediately set up an urgent care visit. I was convinced I had a tumor in my head or some other strange, rare, incurable disease. I searched google endlessly, each search result saying I had an ailment worse than the last. Sweat beaded down my brow, my chest tightened as anxiety coursed through my body. I fidgeted uncomfortably, unable to rid my mind of the thought that a brain tumour was growing larger inside my skull with each passing second. Or maybe a swollen blood vessel that was going to rupture, causing a fatal aneurysm.
My urgent care visit was unconvincing. The doctor told me that it was indeed normal for a healthy adult in her mid-twenties to get headaches, but I, of course, needed reassurance. Finally, after pestering and badgering, and even flat out arguing, she conceded, and scheduled me for an MRI appointment.
Finally, after several weeks of worrying, I arrived for my MRI at St. John’s General Hospital. The waiting room I arrived in was a small rectangle. The administrative desk was in the front of the room, where two receptionists sat, looking irritated, busy on phone calls. A purple orchid in a pot sat on the corner of the desk. An aquarium tank was embedded in the wall behind the orchid, fluorescent greens and blues bloomed and highlighted the tropical fish that swam around the tank’s interior. The air conditioning hummed over the sound of Good Morning America being played softly through the TV mounted in the corner of the ceiling. I remember thinking that I didn’t recognize any of the hosts on the TV.
Stationed in this waiting room were fifteen identical, expensive looking, shiny black leather chairs that had button tufting going up the backrests. Five chairs were occupied with patients: an elderly man and his presumed wife, a middle aged, balding man with freckles, and a mother, maybe in her late forties, seated next to her teenage daughter.
I checked in, arranged my insurance, and sat down in the waiting room. I pulled out my phone as I settled into the cold, firm leather seat cushion of one of the chairs. All of the other patients were getting called before me. I noticed that, strangely, none of the other people in the room were on their phones. They were either conversing amongst themselves, or, perhaps most bizarrely, reading magazines the hospital had provided.
Within fifteen minutes, the room was empty except for me. The hum of the A/C left me uneasy. Effectively having tuned out the television above me, the room was quiet. Then, finally, a door opened, to my left. I shifted in my seat to face a masked nurse. Her sky blue scrubs were covered in dark, crimson splatters which were splayed out in random, irregular patterns. The stains were faint and subtle, yet still deeply contrasted by the light blue color of the scrubs. It’s hard to explain, even now, and I still rack my brain to try to find a good way to describe it, yet seem to fail. At the sight of the nurse, I reflexively tucked my knees to my chin in fear and confusion. The wooden legs of my chair slid audibly against the carpeted floor.
The nurse made eye contact with me behind her mask, yet did not speak to me. She strolled past me to the desk, whispered something to the receptionist, looked back towards me, and then exited the waiting room in the same door she entered.
The receptionist spoke my name, asking me to come to her. I rose from my seat, still the only patient in the room.
“There has been an unfortunate malfunction with our MRI imager. We could reschedule you, but the waiting list is two months.” She said to me, her wrinkled eyes emotionless and drained. How the hell does an MRI machine malfunction?
“Well, wouldn’t I go to the top of the list? I’ve already waited a month.” I protested.
“No ma’am, I’m afraid that’s not how our waiting lists operate. All of our other locations are booked as well I’m afraid.”
“Well that’s just great.” I muttered, frustrated. I slung my purse over my shoulder as I turned to exit the waiting room.
“There is an alternative, ma’am.”
“And what would that be?” I said, my hand still on the door handle.
“A cerebral angiogram.” She said bluntly, as if expecting me to know what that was.
“What’s that?” I questioned. I walked towards the desk.
“It’s a simple procedure.” I waited for a follow up that never came. Just a blank stare. Discomfort roiled in the nape of my neck.
“Ok, but what is it?” I pressed.
“It’s a medical procedure that takes images of the blood vessels inside of your brain. Looking here, your insurance fully covers it.”
I was relieved. I couldn’t really afford an MRI bill anyway, so if I could’ve gotten out of there without having to spend a penny, it would’ve helped with the bills immensely. Little did I know at the time that the two procedures were entirely separate and used for vastly different medical reasons.
“And you can do this now?”
“Yes ma’am, shall I tell them you’re ready?”
“Ugh, yeah, sure. Yeah, I guess so.” I said anxiously. The procedure sounded legitimate.
“Great, just sign this form.” A form with the hospital’s logo as a header was pushed in front of me.
“What is this?”
“Just some legal jargon, you know how it is.” The receptionist chuckled, the first sign of emotion in her voice. I grabbed the pen and scrawled my signature on the bottom line. A mistake.
“Great, you’re all set!”
Immediately, almost as if she was listening from the other side of the door, the masked nurse in the blood stained scrubs popped into the room. Mind you, I was still standing at the reception desk.
“Follow me please.” The nurse said, turning her back to me.
“How’s your day?” She asked.
“Oh, it’s ok.” I said, the small talk making me uneasy. I’m still not entirely sure what was said in the next few moments. At the time, I believed what I heard, muttered under her breath, was:
“It won’t be.”
Now, I’m not entirely sure, but I know she said something that she didn’t want me to hear. In any event, we continued until we reached one of the many general examination rooms.
“Have a seat.” I did as instructed, perching myself delicately on the end of the exam bed. The paper that covered the bed crinkled under my petite frame.
“Ok, since we are doing an angiogram, I’m going to need a blood sample.”
“Oh, why is that?” I asked. I hated needles.
“Mainly, we’re checking for adequate levels of hemoglobin in your blood.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s to check for sepsis. We are also checking your PT levels to rule out any kind of coagulopathy.” The medical terms flew over my head as she took my blood pressure and checked my heart with a stethoscope, all things that a nurse would do. Then she prepared my arm for the blood draw.
I winced as the needle slid into my flesh, the pinch severe, then tapering off. I felt my pulse as the blood was drawn out of my body. Finally, she withdrew the needle, bandaged the spot on my arm, then exited the room.
“Wait here. I’ll return with your test results.” Strange. Any test I’d ever gotten usually took days to weeks to get results for. While waiting, I searched for the procedure briefly on google, but couldn’t quite ascertain the spelling. Fuck, why couldn’t I remember?
“Blood test came back normal. I assume Dr. Bergman, our head radiologist, went through the procedure and any side effects you may have? Answered your questions?” The nurse burst back into the room, her masked face now making eye contact.
“No, I was alone the entire time.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate. He was probably seeing another patient. I’ll make sure he visits you and answers all of your questions beforehand. In the meantime, I’ll need you to change into a hospital gown.” I followed her to a changing room. The room was small and dimly lit with a single, overhead bulb. Lockers lined each wall as I threw off my shirt, bra, jeans, and shoes. I slipped the massive hospital gown over my head. I met the nurse outside the door, who was now surrounded with four other nurses, two at each side, to lead me to the procedure room. I followed them closely, rounding corners and walking down long hallways. I didn’t see any other patients, or any other staff members. My chest felt heavy.
“I still haven’t talked to any doctors yet, I have some concerns.” I said aloud. I was ignored. The silence was palpable.
Just then, we rounded the corner into a massive room. Numerous, unfamiliar instruments were strung about. Large cylindrical drums were suspended from the ceiling. Ancient looking computers were sprawled across the room. A man, maybe late thirties, stood in the middle of the room. His heavy black beard raised as he smiled warmly, his white lab coat pristine.
“Hello, I’m Doctor Bergman! I’m so very sorry I wasn’t able to see you earlier, I was preoccupied with another patient. Please, do lie down on that gurney and we’ll get started.”
“Wait, I have questions.” I spoke up, having enough of the verbal hot-potato.
“Such as?” He said impatiently.
“What goes on during this exactly? Like exactly exactly?” I froze, unmoving, distrust seeping through my pores.
“It’s a cerebral angiogram. It’s used primarily to detect any abnormalities in the brain or its blood supply.”
“I didn’t ask what it does, I asked what the procedure is like. What happens during it?” I said, my heart racing.
“Patient is being belligerent, strap her down!” The doctor yelled suddenly. Nurses on either side grabbed me underneath my arms. I kicked and screamed.
“Let go of me! Fucking let go of me!” Another nurse bent over and grabbed my ankles, the rubbery latex gloves were harsh on my exposed skin.
I struggled, bucked, and wiggled ferociously, trying to pry myself free. I turned my head out of desperation and bit down on one of the nurses’ shoulders. She gasped as her grip loosened, my shoulder and back slammed down forcefully on the shiny floor.
I kicked and flopped around and screamed, hoping to pry myself free. More nurses and doctors now, all of them with enraged sneers drawn across their faces. They grabbed at me, a sea of hands all gripping a part of me as resistance became futile.
“Help me! Help me!” I continued to scream until my vocal cords gave out. Dry, silent gasps emanated from my mouth as the cocoon of insane medical staff lifted my crazed, convulsing body up onto the gurney.
“Tie her down!” Dr. Bergman shouted. I began weeping, sobbing even. My chest heaved, hopelessly dreading what was to come, even though I had no idea what that was. Gloved hands secured buckled, nylon straps around my ankles, then legs. Around my wrists, then my arms. My waist, then my chest and head. I was completely immobilized. I tried turning my head to get a full view of my surroundings. I was only able to move my eyes as masked people scuffled about the room. Bright overhead lights burned into my corneas as Dr. Bergman walked over to me, standing right above my head.
“Biting my assistant wasn’t very nice, now was it?.” He growled, his eyes full of hate and disdain.
“Please let me go.” I managed to squeak out, my throat still raw and dry. The doctor scoffed as he turned away.
“Insert the catheter.” He demanded. A thin, plastic tube was shoved into my genitals. I screamed as pain exploded up my back and down my legs. The tube was ran up into my bladder. I cried out, the pain horrific.
“Sedate her. A paralyzing agent would be best.” He demanded. An IV bag was strung on a hook as a long needle was slid into the crook of my elbow. Then drugs were administered into the tube after a saline flush. I began to lose feeling in my entire body. I was conscious, but could not feel from the neck down.
Then, strangely, a large metal… thing was placed around my neck, and locked from both sides with large padlocks. It was a half circle band that fit on top of my neck. In the middle of the band was a long, narrow cylinder that shot up a few inches, barely the width of pencil lead. The metal felt cold on my skin as my throat tightened.
Dr. Bergman wheeled over on a stool, with a four inch needle nestled in his gloved hands. A clear plastic tube ran from the needle.
“This is an ink injector. We use this to take images inside your brain. The ink is radioactive and highly toxic which is why we flush it via a catheter.” Doctor Bergman explained, grinning devilishly.
“No! Stop! I don’t want this!” I screamed, my vocal cords finding new strength. My screams were so loud that they echoed off the walls. Surely someone would check on me? Stop this?
“This room is soundproof. Just keep your throat still. It’ll hurt less.” Bergman smiled sadistically, relishing the moment. Finally, after a few tense seconds, he dipped the needle downwards, inserting it into the metal tube jutting out from my neck band. I braced myself. I felt the needle tip against my neck. My skin hunkered back reflexively. The tip pushed firmly against my skin, then broke the surface. Pain shot through the newly made hole. Blood spurted out of the hole and onto my face in warm red droplets. I winced, the needle slowly working its way deeper and deeper through each individual, fleshy membrane layer. I felt the tiny rod wiggle its way deeper into my flesh, my neck constricting and screaming out in pain.
The needle worked its way until it touched my windpipe. The needle point scraped and scratched against the delicate surface as pain rippled throughout my neck. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Breathing was laborious and strained. I saw blue ink begin to run through the line. Then everything faded to black, my body finally giving up, the pain excruciating.
I awoke in a hospital room. Not sure of where I was, my eyes adjusted. A nurse stood at a computer in the room. I felt my neck, a small, circular bandage covered the needle hole.
“Finally awake!” The nurse said.
“Where am I?” My drug induced haze impairing my memory.
“The B wing of Madison Canyon Medical Center. How are you feeling?”
“No, no, that can’t be right. I thought I was at St John’s.” I said, my memory suddenly coming back in a flash.
“I’m sorry, but that hospital was demolished in 1995. I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. What procedure did you undergo? It says here that…”
“An angiogram, or something like that?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I heard you right?”
“An an-gio-gram.” I said, emphasizing each syllable.
“Ma’am, we haven’t done a procedure like that in this hospital since the mid-seventies.”