Yesterday was quite taxing. I went to the MRI place with Paul. I was clutching my stuffed animal the whole time, and as soon as she slid me into the face cage, I started to cry. But oh my god -- Nancy, the MRI tech (correct language?), was the nicest human being in the whole world. She was so patient with me about the whole thing and let me try several different positions. Her kindness changed the whole situation from fear and desperation to challenge, a sort of "You can do this," self-pep-talk.
She put blankets on me because it was too cold and put the headphones on my ears so I could listen to music. She even tried to get NPR for me on the radio, but it wouldn't come in, so we did B101. She slid me in so that the little mirror inside allowed me to see Paul's face, and I could even wiggle the stuffed piggy in the window to make myself feel better. I was somewhat embarrassed to be such a pussy, but on the other hand, I'm incredibly brave about other procedures, so I figure it all evens out.
I had tested the Ativan the night before, and found double my normal dose didn't even come close to quelling my anxiety. So to be super duper sure, I took three Ativan, which amazingly kicked in right as Nancy slid me in to start the tests. So that's when I fell asleep, and every time she told me I was doing great, I wanted to say, "Can't you see I'm sleeping? Stop waking me up?" But in a very drugged way.
The funny thing about Ativan that I've experienced in the past is that once you're over your initial exhaustion, you can stay up for a long time and you behave sort of bizarrely and without a thread and then don't remember any of it. So apparently after the MRI I went to lunch, bought a CD of someone I've never heard of -- who's Ray Lamontagne? -- and came to work, and I hardly remember any of it. The sedation/amnesiac wanderings continued into the night, and probably influenced my inappropriate decision after we won the World Series to run out of the house with a video camera -- while wearing my pajamas.
I ran along the streets in those pajamas, videotaping people, jumping up and down and shouting, "Yay! Phillies!" and then came home and ate a box of cookies. I guess it's like being under the influence of Ecstasy or something, but since I've never used recreational drugs, I have no idea. All I know is that when I woke up this morning and put several clues together, I thought, "Dear god. Ativan + first Phillies World Series in 28 years = total lunacy."
I got to bed so late I'm still out of it, but at least the Ativan is out of my system.
All that being said, if I ever have an MRI again, will I take the Ativan? You bet your ass I will.