Report on the current state of my neurological situation
Today was the day for my every-few-years follow-up appointment with my neurosurgeon. It started, as it usually does, with an MRI brain scan. I've had so many over the years that it's old hat now. Get there a half hour before to fill out all the paper work. Change into hospital clothes. Wait a half hour after the actual appointment time to get started (unless it's the first appointment of the day). Loud machine is loud and cramped and the best way to handle it is to close your eyes and zone out to the music coming through the earphones/earplugs. My least favorite scan is the one that blares at you in fifteen-blare spurts. Yes, I counted them. There's nothing else to do. Come out of the tube and feel like you'll never be able to sit up and feel right with the world again, but then you do, and it's okay.
Then comes the awkward in-betweeny bit of time between the MRI and the actual appointment with the doctor. Do you go home? Do you stay? GO. HOME. If at all possible. Go home, because you're just going to spend another half hour waiting at the doctor's office.
Home. Lunch, or a pitiful excuse for it. And back to almost exactly the same place. It's just one building up. If you needed to, you could get there without even having to go outside. All these buildings are connected.
More paperwork. More waiting. Go in to see the doctor and wait some more. Finally see the doctor and get about a five- to ten-minute explanation of what's going on. Go home.
The highlights for me today:
The music they were playing for me in the MRI machine was in the same key as the machine's blaring. That was good, because if it hadn't been, it would have driven me crazy.
The PA who checked me in at neurosurgery looked in my chart, saw the data disk of my last MRI at PCMC (the children's hospital), which was taped to the inside cover of my chart, literally ripped it out and handed it to me saying, "We don't need this anymore." *stifles laughter*
Dr. S actually showing me comparisons of my scans from this year to two years ago, and this year to eight years ago. My brain has literally gotten thicker in the eight years since surgery. That's pretty amazing.
I don't have to go again for another three years, unless there are developments. That's pretty cool. I mean, at first I was going every few months. Then it was every year. Then it was every two. It's pretty amazing that I'm still doing so well, considering the option they went with for my surgery is in no way a permanent solution (though it is slightly more permanent than a peritoneal shunt).
When I told my dad about the incident with the data disk, and remarked upon the fact that they hadn't even cared enough about me at PCMC to put my date of birth on the disk (even though there is a dedicated space for it!) let alone my full name, the following conversation ensued (and I quote)
Dad: They didn't care about you there, are you kidding me? W [the neurosurgeon, full name withheld to protect his identity] couldn't have cared less about you.
Me: Yeah, he was, pardon my French, a dick.
Dad: ...head.
That is incredibly accurate in describing that particular doctor, in my admittedly biased opinion. But when people get hurt because of a doctor's refusal to act, that doesn't sit well with me, and I know I'm not the only one who has been hurt by this man's lack of action.
So, bottom line: Things are stable. Change from two years ago is virtually non-existent. My neuro-ophthalmologist is pleased with my progress there as well, so that's good.
I am, in their eyes, healthy.