The Results
For many months I have often stared at my ceiling, the sky, a computer screen or a book wondering the exact same thing. What is wrong with me? I’ve tried two rounds of physical therapy, yoga, running lightly, biking slowly, pilates, stretching, and core strengthening all to no avail. Last Tuesday my doctor thought it was time for me to get an MRI. When he said those words my heart sped up, anticipation consumed my thoughts, and I didn’t even know what an MRI was.
My MRI was scheduled for Thursday. I was greeted by a Radiologist Technician at Boulder Community Hospital. In a cheerful voice she said, “Hi Ryan, my name is Shelly. I’ll be with you throughout the entire procedure”. “Procedure?,” I said. She explained that the shot I would be getting in my hip socket was a litter bigger than your average immunization. I changed into the necessary gown while Shelly waited for me. She explained what was about to happen. I had to lie down on a live x-ray table so the doctor could guide the needles with better accuracy. The radiologist would first administer a lidocaine shot into my hip, and then he would insert a larger needle all the way down into the socket. That larger needle would drop some gadolinium into the socket to provide better contrast for the MRI.
The entire experience thus far had caught me off guard. I don’t like needles just like I don’t like sharks. But, for some reason I had blind hope that this hospital visit would be the key to my healing correctly. The lidocaine was no big deal, it stung. I felt a little pressure on my hip after that; the doctor confirmed that was in fact the entrance of the bigger needle. I could feel it going through my body. It did not feel pleasant. “This is going to feel weird”, said Dr. Helgans. Sure enough, I felt the needle hit my femur. It felt weird and it hurt. He tapped the needle a few more times to get the right location while I grimaced and stared at the ceiling. “Now this is going to feel really really weird”, he said. I’m thinking, oh God this is not going to be fun. And it wasn’t. I could feel as the liquid dropped into my hip socket and after awhile I felt my leg lock up. It began to shake. He finished shortly thereafter. I was hurting. It took me awhile to get off of the table, Shelly made me wait until the color returned to my face. Relief.
I went to the changing room and everything hit me at once. I had one pant leg on and tears began to stream down my face. I was sobbing and I couldn’t explain why. Somehow I felt like this was it, that this day was the turning point, something big would come of this experience. I was praying, I was hoping. I left the changing room, eyes bright red and looking at my feet, Shelly asked if I was ok. “Yep”, I glanced up at her, “let’s kick it to the MRI”.
Twenty minutes later, I was lying in the MRI tube. Thoughts of recovery, running, and everything I’d missed were jogging through my head. My emotions were heavy and tears were all but held back. They flowed easily down the sides of my face and rolled to the bottom of each ear. The tears tickled and strangely a smile emerged in the midst of all my sorrow. I knew I was a pitiful site and I was thankful that only my hip was being captured in these never ending photographs. I could hear the magnet spinning around me and I was willing it to find the source of my frustrations. Eventually I dozed off into a dream.
I’d been waiting for the results for six days when my doctor called me last night just after 5 pm. “Ryan, I’ve got some good news. You don’t have a labral terror (hip socket).” My heart sank and despair quickly returned as he explained why that was not the case. I was just so sure that they would find something, the something that was wrong with me. He continued, “But we found something else that was very interesting”. My heart jumped again. “It looks like you have a tear in your joint capsule.” I asked several questions, found out the answer was proably surgery and a full recovery was “likely”.
I was still at work, in a dark conference room. I sank into the nearest chair and slowly began to cry. Over the past 9 months I’ve lost a lot of hope. When I first hurt myself I thought I’d be good to go the next day. When that didn’t happen, I thought maybe a week. After a week I thought maybe two more. Somewhere along that road I stopped calculating when I’d get better and all I saw was no end. Which quite literally was nothing. And when I hit that point I knew in many ways that I was probably “depressed”. Because I sure as hell felt/feel it. My passions are no longer my passions and each day has become just that, another day. Running, Biking, Yoga - a distant dream. I was sitting there, head in hands, dreaming once again about the next time I’d be able to run up a mountain. Crisp mountain air, pine needle trails, and steep ascents. Finally, I had an answer. With that, hope.
Filed by ryanroth at January 18th, 2007 under Mowntins