I don’t recommend them. My new neurosurg (he’s tops!) has recommended that we (by “we” I mean, “he”) do a CT/Angiogram every 5 years to stave off any pesky new aneurysms. I’ve been having a pretty intense, lingering headache this past few weeks so I thought it was a tops idea. Of course, I’d forgotten about the reality of the Angiogram.
The last (and ahem, first) time I had one my brain was haemorrhaging so bad I thought I was going to die, so the only vague recollection I have of it was the sensation of hot coffee spreading through my brain. The idea of the bleeding (sorry, no pun intended. No, really) things is to poke dye into your bod via a drip (the first one was in my groin, today’s was in my arm) so that it highlights all the vessels they want to take piccies of to look for any anomalies. Great theory, right?
I was warned that I could feel nauseous. Was warned that it would feel weird. Hey, I thought, I’ve had a baby spew forth into the world via my lovely loins, what could possibly feel weirder than that? Well. An angiogram feels weirder. It only lasts about 10 minutes, but in that 10 minutes the weird-arse sensation of pulsing pressurised hot coffee through my whole body made me want to upchuck. I’d fasted for 2 hours prior so that I wouldn’t actually hurl, but anyone who knows me knows that without food for any period of time I’m a grumpy space-cadet capable of a grunt here and there, otherwise I’m likely to BITE YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF. You heard me. You judge which Me you would want to meet in a dark alley.
I also have a fear/phobia of CT machines. I hate them. I think it harks back to my formative years watching poor old Reagan going through the CT scan to look for any demonic “lesions”. I call the machine the Pizza Oven because, well, that’s what they look like. I’m waiting for the nurse to come in and spread tomato, ham and fior de latte (because hey, I’m a Melbourne girl) onto my body before sticking me under there. Hmmm. Pizza.
So I’m lying on this stupid CT machine, with the clackety clack whirr of the CT machine circling my head, hot coffee going through my brain and nether regions, thinking about PIZZA, wanting to vomit so badly over the million dollar CT machine and wondering whether Max Von Sydow really was an Exorcist and I’m not even allowed to bloody well move. Sucks to be me, right? I had a minor panic attack inside the machine and to keep the panic at bay I imagined myself on a beach, the warm sand behind my head with Dean Winchester in an early stage of undress about to rub suntan on my other hot bits. OK, I lied about the Winchester boy but not out of any angelic sense of chastity, oh no. I just plain forgot. Would have worked a treat, though. Maybe I do have demons in my head, after all. Might not be such a bad thing.