Bad Days with a Bad Brain

The last week has not been my finest, I must admit. I've had some dreaded headaches that absolutely terrified me, but there's a good chance my decision of lugging a mattress into my house alone did not help my head; luckily I had a pre-planned MRI scan following my stint of radiotherapy, so if there does end up being something wrong, at least we've caught it early on. It was recommended by a family member that I talk about my anxiety from the last week, so here I am.

After a year of headaches, any headache I get now absolutely scares the shit out of me, so spending Thursday in bed with a headache lasting the whole day barely being touched by painkillers set me off on a downward spiral after such a long few months of treatment. Along with a fun phobia of needles (which is really inconvient when your medical life consists of cannulas and blood tests), a brand new shiny phobia of headaches emerged. This lovely phobia brings us to Sunday, where I got my MRI. After my last MRI, being told my tumour had regrown means I now get incredibly anxious anytime I'm 20 minutes away from the alotted appointment time, and the visible shaking sets in and my chest becomes incredibly tight. The thing about having a traumatic experience means anything associated with it automatically strikes fear into you. Walking into UCLH set off the nausea, waiting in the lift tightened my chest, and signing in at the reception made my knees buckle. The second my radiographer called my name, the tears began. The anxiety had built up and overflowed and I sat in the chair crying waiting for her to insert the cannula (which has left a sweet little bruise, as some macarbe reminder of the day), explaining that I'm not usually THIS bad, but I'm incredibly nervous and my last MRI was not a pleasant experience for me. The amazing thing about our NHS is the people who work for it, all of which have been amazingly symathetic of my phobia, and have all been incredibly reassuring every single time they've come to visit me. 

As soon as the cannula was in, taped down, and capped, my shaking stopped. It literally is that easy, and I know it is the pure anticipation of a needle that sets me off, and I usually laugh at how painless it really was, a simple 'sharp scratch' and it is all over. If there is anything I've learned about my brain over the last few months, paired with some vague memory of A-Level Psgchology, it is that my brain is very unpredictable, and it does whatever she wants to do whether I like it or not. I hype myself up before a scan or blood test, say to myself I will force my arm out and let them cannulate me, and get on with my day. Did that happen? Absolutely fucking not. My legs are aggressively shaking, I'm hyperventilating, my arm snatches itself away from the radiographer and my face is drenched in tears. The second it's all finished? I'm giggling with the nurse about how freaked out I was and how easy going through it was, and I'm off to lie down in a noisy scanner for 30 minutes before I get to go home and sleep it all off.

So the last week was spent crying, shaking, and altogether struggling, but I'm reminded that feeling anxious is okay, it will always be okay, and having those bad days only helps to solidify my progress. So I'm okay with that. I still got to celebrate some great moments in the week: I got to meet up with an old friend and have a laugh over a cup of tea like we used to, I was able to spend a day out with my Mother shopping and eating lunch, and I got to visit the circus with Alfie (and no, it wasn't for an audition, although I'm certain I would've passed with flying colours even if it was). So, onwards and upwards! Even if there is a low inbetween.